Until debt do us part
by bossycontrolfreak
Summary: [AU] Two people with absolutely nothing in common will find their lives intertwined when John Smith, humble inventor, causes Clara Oswald, infamous businesswoman, a car accident that will leave her not only without a wedding, but an enourmous debt he must repay. Given that his inventions make little to no money, he must work for her until debt does them part or love brings together
1. A Good Seller

**Hello there! This is my first fic and English is my second language, so all constructive criticism should be sent my way. I hope to update regularly, and that you enjoy, review, yada yada. Now, storytime.**

**"****People don't buy for logical reasons. They buy for emotional reasons." – **_**Zig Ziglar**_

_A good seller must always act confident, because we're not selling a product. We're selling a dream. We're helpers, consultants. We're what our customer should aspire to be, we should be the reason they'd buy our product. We are the product. A good seller should be nothing but a most fervent egomaniac. _

"Hello there, I'm John Smith. It's my absolute pleasure to meet you. Thank you for your time! Not literally your time because I'm not robbing it from you or anything. It is, actually, impossible to rob time. - Waste it? No, it's not the same thing! No sir, absolutely not! Besides, I'm one hundred percent convinced that what I'm going to do for you will be absolutely worth your time. You're probably, who is he? Why is it that such a _cool _bloke has asked for a minute of my time? That is because I'm a businessman and inventor, and you - you're just the one I was looking for. With me, everything's for sale! With the exception of my _ride_ of course. Oh, and the Ponds! Never the Ponds. I don't mean literal ponds, those I can certainly offer! Wonder why anyone would want a pond though, you can't do much with them- but I'm sure I could manage to get one for you if you asked. A swimming pool however, now that would be just great. Enough ramblings! Let us make business" Grin cheerfully greeting his rusty mirror, he offered his hand and adjusted his bowtie just once more, as a confidence boost.

He didn't truly needed it, because John Smith was probably the most confident seller he'd ever met. Not because he deemed himself particularly remarkable or outstanding (how could he, with a name as dreadfully common as that!), but because he deemed himself clever. Clever enough to make anything he offered become the ultimate need of whoever he was selling to. Clever enough to let his way with words pay him the bills. Clever enough to let it pay Amy's bills too. Clever enough to be the backbone of good old Aunt Shannon's little household. And for that, for being a member of such a special little place, he was infinitely proud.

Hopping instead of walking, he swayed his way across the usual path from his room to the impossibly small kitchen, took a bit off a jammie dodger and then made it to the yard, where his beloved awaited. "Good morning! How's my favourite girl?" And there was no answer that any sane person would've heard, since his beloved was, admittedly, a vibrant old blue car, more valuable to him than any other car (or thing) in the universe. He stroked every inch of it gently as he made it to the trunk, conversation maintained. "Where do you fancy going today? The Great Intelligence Building? No, we went there last week, and we got kicked out!" his tone implied that the car had been to blame, as if they were a team and the car had been the part that got it all wrong. In a way they were a team, since his car was the closest thing to an office he had. There he travelled to meet whoever had to be met, and carried whatever had to be carried. There he spent the majority of his time, even if he didn't have a specific destination.

"I've told you a hundred times, talking to your car is _not_ cool" interrupted him an equally energetic redhead who carried approximately ten boxes, the truck opening in perfect sync to spare her the exhaustion of having to carry them any longer. Ignoring her comment (because she clearly didn't know a thing about cool), he placed and opened the boxes with several 'oohhh's and 'ahhhh's as he took out some of the content examining it. There was all types of trinkets and rarities, mostly of his own invention (even a quadricicle), as well as other more common items (that gained him the most profit) such as bottles of wine, clothing and electro domestics, all ready to be sold. Her hands also strayed across the items, hope emanating from her fingers. "What you up to today?" she asked, absentmindedly. A bit more absentmindedly than usual, he reckoned. "Try and put my inventions out there, make us enough money for another day, drive around, the usual. Why?" And she started scratching her nail polish, first sign that he probably wouldn't like the answer. "Model School. Tomorrow's the tuition due date. They won't let me in if I haven't paid" As the information slipped, his hands unconsciously aimed for his hair, sign of a desperate concern he wished she hadn't seen. Or noticed, at least. Hoping she hadn't, because he didn't want her to feel anything but safe, he swished his worries away by kissing her forehead. "Don't you worry, Pond. I'll figure it out. Got a feeling that today's the day" he lied, much more cheerful than before, even if his cheerfulness was a mere mask for his inner sense of defeat. He knew that a good day might never come for him, because he was undeserving. Still he deemed it unfair, because he wanted her to have the best of days. "Gotcha. It's about the thing with _Mels, _right?" she smiled, returning the spirit of glees back into him, and he nodded enthusiastically. He nodded even if he hadn't talked to Melody, or Vanishing Melody, as he secretly called her, in days. "Good. Seems like my job here is done" she smirked, patting the blue car goodbye (everyone had learnt to treat it as a pet under his influence). He couldn't help but smile as she left, proud and fierce in her usual stomping about. Of course, her clothing decisions didn't go unnoticed. "Oi! Watch that skirt length" he scolded her, earning himself a perfectly spunky eye roll. Oh, how he adored it. "You're worse than my aunt" she huffed, "I watch the skirt, you watch the _bowtie_" she added teasingly, finishing their usual morning conversation. With Aunt Shannon waving them both goodbye from the window, he hopped inside his beautiful car (TARDIS he called it, since it carried the plates T4RD1S and _she_ deserved a name over an ID) and took off for another day, breathing along the soft roar of the car's engines.

_A good seller must always be the first to show belief, no, not belief, certainty about the quality of their product. And once they've managed to seduce the customer, to let them share that certainty, it is time for a final move. During the move, the client must be also convinced that we're on their side. More than salespeople, we're magicians. We're the creators of happy endings. Everyone has something to offer, something to sale. And also, we all have something we want -_

" - to buy. We all have a dream we'd like to turn into a reality. And this, this is why we sellers important. And this is why, right here in Alaska-Cars, we have the best team of sellers, which is all of you." And as sales manager Clara Oswald let the last word of her typical morning speech pop out of her lips, the room was filled with applause. It wasn't at all flattering, because she knew it grotesquely hypocritical. "As much as I appreciate the applause, we're here to do one thing and one thing only, which is-" "-SELL SELL SELL" her sales team chorused, knowing that it was both the motto and usually the last word of the session. It was the same exhausting routine every morning. They'd meet at eight, Lady Cassandra would be horribly late (nine thirty on a good day) and present her rubbish excuse for it. Clara would then give her usual motivational speech, Vastra would complain about how it was absolutely unnecessary of Clara to teach them anything because selling was nothing but tricking the mind, and Donna would agree in much more feisty terms. Rose would get bored and drop her pencil, pen or anything as an excuse to show off her mini skirt, both Mickey and James would flatter Rose, Jack would join the compliment fest, then remember and talk about someone he picked up at a pub the day before and Harold would state that the meeting was a joke, a waste of his time, and that Clara was completely useless as a Manager, reason he should be the Manager instead, statement that would make Clara furious and bring her controlling side in an attempt to show that she was perfectly qualified for her position (even if Jenny usually said she needn't do so). It would all end in Clara scolding everyone under any excuse, most of them perfectly valid, and the meeting would be over at last for no parts could endure it any longer.

This daily course of was action anticipated by everyone, and it made them wish to run away from their boss and her control freak tendencies as quickly as possible. Hence, as soon as the motto had been said, the sales team started lifting their papers and scattering across the room, all not so discretely aiming towards the door. "Hang on, schedules!" Clara shrieked, a silent_ 'oh oh'_ almost tangible in the air. "Pop back in your seats, it'll be just a mo'. So, today Donna, Cassandra, Vastra, Harold and Mickey get to stay in the agency. Rose, Martha, Jack and James have to visit at least one customer outside, and hunt for more. Hope you've made your appointments. See you tomorrow at eight sharp. " And now, all instructions given, Clara was fully prepared to leave herself. Not before giving her board one last glance. The board was her pride, the ultimate sign of her authority. There was the date written in neat writing and underlined in red, and a below it chart which occupied most of the space. Each member of the team had been meticulously placed in said chart, alongside with the number of cars they'd sold and the number of cars they had yet to sell to reach their monthly goal. Her glance was nothing but a reminder of said chart, nightmare of her lousy crowd.

" Dearie _O_, you sure you're coming tomorrow?" asked Lady Cassandra, licking her obnoxiously red lip. "Because you know, your wedding is on Saturday", she added, sharpening her glance, as if gossiping fuelled her a joy only comparable to a shopping spree. "Yes, Mrs. O'Brien, I'm perfectly aware that my wedding is Saturday at seven in the afternoon. But I'll be coming the rest of this week without fail. Oh, and don't you dare think that my honeymoon's also going to be a honeymoon for the lot of you. You've still got goals to reach and I'll be just in time to send my report to the higher ranks, so enough chit chat and more sell sells. Chop chop" clapping fervently, Clara urged them to leave the Conference Room before the usual spectacle began.

"Poor bloke, that Danny" she heard Donna mumble both loudly and sassily enough for her to hear. It sounded like the beginning of the daily chaos, so in an attempt to avoid it, Clara simply ignored the comment and looked at Jenny, who was now updating the virtual copy of the so feared chart on Clara's laptop. "Don't mind her. She's just got no filter" stated Jenny, only member of her team inside that dangerous room. "Bit like you", she added, and while Clara wished she had a most perfect comeback for it, the truth in Jenny's words made it impossible not to laugh in a way that made the grey room look filled with colour.

"Do you really think everything's going to be fine? While I'm on my honeymoon, I mean" Clara asked (even if she knew the answer was: 'No. They're an incredibly lazy lot who'll do nothing but party the two weeks you're gone), shutting down the colours she'd just painted. "I'm sure they will. You've got me here, you know? I can be plenty terrifying if I want to" Jenny smirked, even if Clara believed that to be nothing but absolute lies. Unlike her, Jenny was far too sweet to ever be the boss of such a self-proclaimed independent crowd.

However, everyone had to admit Clara was a most remarkable boss, and incredibly clever too. It was no surprise that she was called the 'Impossible Girl', because she'd done the impossible. She'd managed to increase profits at an 80%, make deals with important companies previously compromised to other agencies and most importantly, she'd kept the job during five years.

It could all be explained by the fact that she was an egomaniac. Ever since she was little, Clara Oswald had had the undeniable tendency to believe she was and knew better than anyone else. She'd learnt to tie her shoelaces when she was barely one and a half, which meant she was automatically in charge of telling everyone else how to do so. She'd read ten travelling books at the age of nine, which meant she was automatically in charge of telling everyone else where to go. She'd learnt how to shout louder than everyone else, which meant that she automatically shouted when she needed to be heard. But most importantly, she'd lost a mother at the age of eighteen, which meant she was automatically in charge of being everybody else's. And being everybody else's mum meant she knew exactly what to say, when to say it and keep an authority to her that made it impossible to beat her in an argument.

"My life in your hands, Jenny" she joked, although she meant it wholeheartedly. If her sales team crumbled during her absence, so would her job. And with her job, her life, for she was currently kicking and choking in a sea of debts.

_A good seller needs determination. No boundaries would ever stop a good seller from making a deal. We have to find our clients, study them, know them better than they know themselves. After we pursue them, after we've presented ourselves and our product, then we can lure them to us. But a good seller never just sits around and waits. A good seller chases opportunities anywhere and everywhere until they're earned, rather than presented. _

After a good three hours of drifting around, John simply sat on his car and decided to go nowhere. Building after building he'd been either thrown out, busted in his attempts to sell, or sold nothing at all. It was beyond his understanding because, as far as he was concerned, he'd applied every single method perfectly. He'd smiled, he'd swayed across offices (breaking a thing or two) and been absolutely friendly towards everyone. Among his bad days, this was probably the worst. It was barely one in the afternoon and he already wanted nothing but to get the day done with. Sometimes time was a tricky thing for him, because at the same time he felt like it was already a dreadfully late hour. Only around six more Office hours left, and ten boxes still unsold sat in the backseat.

His thoughts drifted between this odd notion of time and places he hadn't gone to yet when his phone started ringing, seemingly louder and more demanding each time. The sentiment was perfectly explained by the name on the screen. Again, opposing thoughts overcame him. "Mels!" he greeted, a tone much happier than his annoyed expression. "Hello Sweetie" her voice purred from the other side of the line. How he hated to love that woman. "Amy told me today was your big day, or that at least it felt as such. Any specific reasons?" Suddenly his frown was turned into a smile, for her tone was as mysteriously playful as he liked it. "You tell me, Melody Malone. What reasons should I have?" he flirted along. He knew that River was a player, and that she'd probably found the contact he expected. Or at least she'd convinced a few of her friends to buy his more 'acceptable' merchandise.

"My love, you have _me_ as a reason. I've spoken to that teacher of mine, Kovarian, about your inventions. She said your tracking device was exactly what she'd been looking for. She even said they could be extremely useful for our next expedition. I may or may not have promised to be there to supervise you every single minute, but she wants you to build a few more and do some trials" she announced in a tone so confident, as if he knew that she'd been the very solution to his every problem, that he wished she were right there to give her a proper kiss. "Brilliant! Should I go meet her then?" he practically stirred his excitement, knowing he needn't conceal with Melody. "The sooner the better. She's holding conferences in Birmingham for the week, but I know no trip is a burden to you" He could almost see her smile through the phone, which made his own smile widen. "Not at all ma'am! When it comes to trips and sales, the more the merrier! And this is both a trip and a sale! A sale of _my _stuffy stuff!" he clapped, almost dropping the phone in his clumsy celebration. He heard her laugh, probably picturing him playing that scenario, and laughed too. "I'll text you the information then, just don't celebrate without me" she teased him, and even if he was all by himself, he felt all shades of red climb up to his cheeks. "Promise I won't. Talk to you soon" "-If you catch me" BEEP BEEP BEEP. And there it was, the average conversation with Vanishing Melody. With the second buzzing and beep came the address he needed to go to, and so he took off to Birmingham, a single goal in mind: do the deal that'd end his trouble.

_A good seller always puts their customers first. They have to be the priority. They have to be made believe that our time is entirely theirs. That we're at their full disposition. That no other client or thing is more important than them. That we'll always be there to aid them, to give them advice. A good salesperson can't afford to have their client think they're not key to them, because it is them who are key to us. _

Clara faced the merriest trouble of her life. Now properly set in her office chair, legs elegantly crossed and everything placed in order so neatly it was difficult to believe someone truly used that office, she flipped each paper evasively. Everything was an absolute disaster, and the frown curved by her eyebrows was the lesser indicator of her internalized panic. Not a single member of the sales team was remotely near their goal, and her bills just kept growing and growing. Bills in exchange of a dream come true, yes, but big enough to turn it into a nightmare. With a punctual sigh, she closed her eyes and simply dropped the papers on her forehead. "Bloody fortune cookie bills", she whispered to an inexistent audience.

Dave Oswald used to love Chinese, and whenever he ordered it, he always offered her the fortune cookie. One time, at age five, she received a cookie that dictated the final sentence: 'You only have a week.' Clara had spent days preoccupied about her lifespan, convinced it would be the last week of her existence, despite her mum's attempts to convince her otherwise. She'd camped outside one night to stargaze with her dad, which was her most favourite thing to do. She'd talked to each and every of her beloved stuffed animals, explaining that soon she would part and they'd have to find a new owner. She'd prepared everything for her death, lived life at its fullest. And by day nine, she lived. She lived with a terrible stomachache from all the 'goodbye' candy she'd secretly eaten (ache which she thought mortal), but she lived.

Each and every bill was like reading that fortune cookie all over again. And this time it was much worse, for she didn't even have an entire week to make the money she needed to pay them. Wedding dress, way over budget (but she looked divine). Honeymoon at One Hundred and One Places, much more than she could afford (but a dream come true). Reception at the same place her parents had gotten married, way above her acquisitive powers (but worth it). Household maintenance, necessary.

When she opened her eyes, Jenny stood right in front of her, gazing her in a way that stated her enormous disapproval. Jenny liked Danny, she really did, but she disliked his unwillingness to put a dime for the wedding ( 'He has a very well paid job that allows it!' she'd protested. 'But it's tradition for the bride to pay', Clara excused him). Of course she didn't know it was Clara who hadn't allowed him. "Shut up, don't say a word. One only gets married once in a lifetime" Clara scoffed, placing both her bills and her shame in a drawer, not to be opened anytime soon.

"Have it your way then" Jenny shrugged, "But he's on the line. Needs to talk to you urgently, he said" she announced. With a single nod and a fully displayed smile, sign of the trust and secrecy between them, Clara picked up her office phone.

"Hello, Danny!" and Jenny shut the door with a giggle, probably planning to tease Clara about her adolescent when it came to Danny behaviour later on. "Clara! Not a bad time to phone, is it?" he asked a bit shyly, causing her cheeks to turn a slightly darker shade of pink, because his shyness was one of her favourite things. "Never a bad time when it's you phoning. But I am a bit busy, last days and all. Need anything?" How she wished she had all the time in the world to talk to Danny. As long as she had him, she knew she needn't worry about closed drawers or final sentences. "Alright then, Manager. Just wanted to ask you to lunch. Picnic? Some classic park action." Yes, she was about to say, when she heard Jenny answer to another call, which should then be transferred to her. "Yeah, sure. Got someone on the other line, mind hanging for a mo'?" and not waiting for a reply, she picked up the second call. "Clara Oswald, Sales Manager from Alaska-Car at your service. What can I do for you today?" she presented her credentials in the sweetest of tones and most methodical of ways. "Clara! Lovely to hear you, same words as always. It's Porridge!" he spoke, and Clara's eyes glimmered at the words. Porridge was The Empire's CEO, and they always made tremendously huge purchases, especially when it was her negotiating. Perhaps the little drawer wouldn't stay trouble for much longer. "Porridge, lovely to hear from you too. I usually say it as a courtesy only, but I actually, properly mean it this once. Please do tell me you're calling for business reasons" she almost implored. "Clara Oswald, I cannot believe you. Haven't even asked me how I'm doing and you're already talking about business" he teased, stealing a grin from her. "Sorry. We can do the catching up thing later" she apologized. "I'll take your word on it. But yes, I'm calling you because we've just opened new headquarters at Birmingham, and we need your both beautiful and efficient self, and cars, as soon as possible" was the answer to her prayers. "How soon?" she asked, fingers already lingering by that drawer of hers. "By yesterday. But I have time at five o'clock today. Can you make it?" So she opened the drawer. She didn't want to make it. She wanted nothing but to have lunch with Danny and marry Danny and forget about work and be with Danny as soon as possible. But for her perfect wedding, she needed her bills in a perfectly rounded and joyous zero. "Count on it. See you at five" she promised. "See you at five. For both business and the catching up thing" Porridge stated, then hanging up, leaving no room for her to argue on the matter.

" - Clara?" spoke her conscience through the phone, perfectly disguised in the shape of Danny Pink still hanging on the line. "Sorry, no lunch today. Got an appointment with Porridge, you know, the CEO. Gotta travel to Birmingham to meet him, even. Big thing I really can't say no to" she confessed.

"Don't worry Clara. You're forgiven on account of all those times Skarosa's made me work late nights" he teased, although she sensed that he probably half meant it. "Dinner then? My dad's already got this thing planned with Linda. 'Cause of the wedding" she tried to mend it, her fingers curling the phone wire. Proper teenager when it came to Danny, she was. "Tonight's probably going to be one of those nights" he admitted sadly. She sat up straighter, swaying her feet, speechless for a moment. Danny Pink always made himself the time for her. Intuitively assuming that it was his attempt at a revenge for her prioritizing Porrdige's business over lunch, she sighed. "Oh, okay. See you tomorrow then. Love you" she added. "Love you" he meant it. And so she hung up, little drawer of bills closed with key, laptop shut in a single sharp move.

She then prepared her purse, corrected her eyeliner (for she was obviously the product Porridge always aimed to purchase), hopped out of her office and informed Jenny of the travelling plans. "What about dinner with your dad? He was awful excited about it. And Linda, you won't hear the end of it from her if you miss it" Jenny seemed much more preoccupied about it than Clara, which made her smile. She was much more than an assistant or a best friend, she was practically family. Like the nagging sister she'd always wanted. "I should be back in time, it's just a two hour drive. I'll be back nine tops. Don't think Linda will really mind it, and she's going to give me hell anyway."

Not wishing to discuss the matter any further, Clara was headed towards the parking lot (curious eyes from her sales team glued to her back).This was one of those moments in life where everything needed to go perfectly, so she took a very deep breath " You've got it all under control", she told herself. Hands with a tight grip of the steering wheel, she was off to Birmingham, a single goal in mind: to make the deal that'd end her trouble.


	2. Moment of Impact

**Hello lovelies! This chapter was a bit more difficult to write because it was quite longer and less introductory ish, but still I think I updated a bit quicker than expected. Also my apologies if it's difficult to understand because a lot happens and I'm not sure it's clear? Anyway, hope you enjoy and review**

**"****The moment of impact. The moment of impact proves potential for change. Has ripples effects far beyond what we can predict. Sending some particles crashing together. Making them closer than before. While sending others spinning off into great ventures. Landing them where you've never thought you've found them. That's the thing about moments like these. You can't, no matter how hard you try, control how it's gonna affect you. You just gotta let the colliding part goes where they may. And wait for the next collision." – Leo, The Vow**

The clink clank of her high heels was the only audible sound in the corridor. That and the disturbing silence that often came with empty places. Or in this case, half empty, because she knew there had to people around and about, but probably at a different floor. The smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air, vibrantly yellow walls still to be decorated and employees yet to be seen. A thousand ideas struggled and dazzled in Clara's mind. First, her feet's complain about her not taking the time to change her shoes. After such a long drive in six inch heels, they were absolutely reluctant to walk. Second, there was her ego telling her that, despite the discomfort of it, she had to look her best in order to make her best sell (both of which she always did). Third, the panicking young girl inside her telling her to review her usual sales speech once more, reminding her of Porridge's characteristics as a client and doing the appropriate analysis in order to sell her the precise number of units that'd make her the commission she needed. Fourth, the concern about not having phoned Linda to warn her about her unexpected trip, and the relief found in the certainty that Jenny would take that task upon herself.

When she finally faced the elevator, she took a deep breath and knew it was time to clear her head of nuisances and focus solely on the target of the day. The target of the day was solving her problems, for this was her one and only shot to do so. It was a sale or sale situation. Forgetful as always, she momentarily feared she'd lost the paper with the floor and Office number she was supposed to go to, but then realized she'd merely folded it into the tiniest of squares and hidden it somewhere in her purse (out of anxiety, definitely). She pressed eleventh floor and hopped in, glad as she could be to be alone in the uprising cage. As the shinning number indicating the floor increased, her nervousness did the opposite.

It all depended on this one sale. She'd been hanging from a thread during days and days, but this would be the ticket to her tranquillity. If this one deal was closed, and it would be, her bills would be paid just in time. Her wedding would be absolutely safe, no room for failure. The sole idea of not having her wedding go precisely as planned broke her heart, and right then it terrified her more than anything else. It'd be the perfect wedding, she'd promised. And she wouldn't break a promise, because her Ellie Oswald never did. No matter how terrifying the prospect of things was, Clara Oswald would do anything to keep her promise. Sell her soul to Porridge, if she had to.

But as daughter of that one Ellie Oswald, her self-control was absolute when it came to being scared. Mostly because she was always scared. Scared of waking up late in the morning. Scared of missing the morning economics section on the radio. Scared of the day she'd no longer be able to hold on to her authority in the bloody conference room. Scared of failure. But most importantly, scared of failing to fulfil this one promise she'd made to let everything be perfection.

Ding. The gates opened and she was an entirely new woman. She walked into the lobby emanating a confidence that made the woman sitting on the front counter immediately sit up straighter, fix her blonde hair and smile at Clara as politely as possible. Clara smiled back, still in definite charge of the situation. Her eyes quickly searched for a name written anywhere. Porridge changed his assistants so often and to women so similar, Clara had the hardest time remembering if she'd met the latest model before or if she was a complete stranger.

As she approached the counter, the blonde woman had the first word at the tip of her tongue, about to break into a probable introduction, but Clara immediately took it from her. "Clara Oswald, Sales Manager from Alaska-Cars. I believe Mr. Porton is expecting me?" she presented herself, an enormous mental effort made not to call her friend Porridge in front of an assistant who'd probably look at her like she was bonkers or make the connection and then the terrible mistake of calling him Porridge too.

"He is. Just a moment, please" said the woman, then swaying from her seat to a wooden door behind her counter, presumably the door to Porridge's office. Clara's hands clung to her briefcase, each second of wait seeming like absolute hell.

"You may come in" announced the blonde, and Clara thanked her with a firm nod before rushing her way inside. It was a clearly modern office, lined texture conforming the reddest red walls she'd ever come across. All furniture was glass, and in the middle of the front wall lied a proud portrait of an even prouder man, suit and tie, grin and slick hair but nothing else. Below the painting was the man himself, a perfect explanation of why the portrait wasn't from head to toe. He was, for lack of a better word, tiny. Still he sat on a black leather chair high enough to make it seem as if he were the same stature of your average British man. His clothes however, had no similarity to those in the portrait. He wore the most humble plaid shirt and jeans old enough to fool you into thinking he was anything but the CEO.

"Clara! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? Sarah, kindly bring us two nice cups of tea, whatever flavour the lady desires" he smiled through his tone of voice and his shinning teeth, a friendliness that made his position even more unbelievable. "Black would be just fine" suggested Clara, taking her corresponding seat on the chair opposite to his. "Of course. I'll be right back" announced Sarah, clink clanking her even higher high heels on her way out, ending the symphony with a sharp shut of the door.

"So" Clara smiled, trying to start the usual small talk, unsure of how to simply get to the point without coming off as rude. "So, what do you think about the new headquarters? I'll probably go back to London as soon as everything's settled in, but I don't complain about being here either" he said laughing hoarsely, bit weird of a laugh, but effervescent enough for Clara to know that he didn't laugh much, and certainly not with everyone. The thought made her ease, her tensed smile widening into something more genuine. "They're quite nice really. Very modern. Do suppose you'll be needing a new car fleet to match the whole hip of it, right?" she inquired, immediately scolding herself for not having been less subtle about the matter. But she hadn't the time to waste, and if he did, it was none of her concern.

"Exactly. I'll be needing not only new cars for my executives, but used cars for the messaging department, vans, trucks, everything" he announced, and for a second Clara was tempted to pinch her leg and make sure she wouldn't wake up in her office, bills still sitting atop her forehead. It was nothing but a wish come true, and she could only thank her lucky stars (and her mum's) for being so accurately magic.

"Porridge, you're a miracle" she told him, so shamelessly and wholeheartedly that she noticed his smile merge with a laugh and his cheeks turn slightly redder.

"Same thing my mum said when I was born" he joked, and she couldn't help but laugh along. "I'll be having a look at your catalogues, which I'm sure you've brought, and we can prepare the contract, which I'm also sure you've brought" he continued, then extending his palm as Clara quickly placed her briefcase on her legs, no need to pretend she hadn't come in fully prepared to seal a deal.

Just as Clara presented the papers on the desk, his assistant, Sarah, rushed in with biscuits and the so desired cups of tea. He thanked her and dismissed her almost immediately. Clara found it funny how a man who loathed positions of power so intensely managed to live day by day working a job that held the most power. It seemed like the more every assistant tried to please him and the more every employee tried to get on his good side, the more exhausted he grew of it.

Ignoring the thought that she felt a very similar annoyance towards her own job, she handed him every catalogue, explained the wonders of each and every single automobile (trying to present the most expensive models with more detail and practically dismissing the cheaper ones), offered him an inventory of the used cars in storage and then continued to flatter every truck and van available. He paid attention during every second of it, bookmarking and counting every single prospect until his list of items was decided. And to say the commission it'd make her would cover for her bills was an underestimation. In fact, it even made her wish she'd been less modest in certain wedding details she could now afford.

Negotiating with Clara Oswald was an extremely difficult task, and she was well aware of it. Mainly, because it was practically impossible to say no to her. She wasn't only incredibly persistent, but conscious of her own charm and trickery, which constantly allowed her to make anyone believe whatever she suggested was definitively best, and that what she offered was exclusive to whoever she was offering it to. But Porridge was well aware of it too, and it was after what seemed the longest (and most exhausting) talk, offers and conditions coming back and forth, that the contract was ready to be signed. And then, the bomb was dropped.

"I'll see you tomorrow to sign then" Porridge unwarily wrecked her world. She almost spit her last sip of tea, and found herself in the atrocious necessity of coughing, fully displaying this sentiment of distress.

"What do you mean tomorrow? Contract's ready and I really, really can't wait" she found herself obliged to confess. "We always sign on the spot, Porridge. You can't do this now" the words slipped from her lips bitterly, and she was surprised she'd said it out loud. Her blissfully triumphant smile had disappeared, all joy erased from her features and suddenly replaced by a fervent feeling of betrayal and desperation freezing her spine, tensing her every muscle and drawing a frown, a glare and a pout where there was a smile.

"I'm afraid I have to, Clara. This is a huge, huge purchase. Not the kind where I can skip protocol. I have to consult it with the rest of the investors, show them the contracts and get their approval. There shouldn't be a problem, we need our vehicles very urgently and we always buy them from you. You know there's nothing I wouldn't do to avoid the look you're giving me right now, but you'll understand that their fury could be much more chaotic than yours. And you'll only have to wait one day more, nothing should be the matter" he explained, as calmly and pacifically as a mother would explain a toddler why the sky is blue.

"My fury is _very_ chaotic, mind you! Everything is the matter, Porridge. If I don't file this sale today, it won't be valid until next month" she replied, her tone somewhat moderate but not even half as calm as him. Her nails were dug deep in her chair, upper lip bit, and childishly as it may have seemed, her every ounce of energy was being used on not breaking down crying, throwing a proper toddler tantrum. "And if it's valid until next month, it'll all remain unpaid and it'll all be ruined then and I- I couldn't do it like this" she added, mostly to herself, face now buried in her hands. Half in distress, half absolutely cross and ashamed of herself for making such a spectacle of herself in front of a customer. Not just any customer, but one she'd known for years and needed so.

So self-absorbed in her pity, she was only snapped back to her senses when she felt a strange hand on her back and turned to face Porridge, who now stood beside her. "I'm sorry Clara. I'll phone Mr. Armitage if you'd like, explain so you can file the sale today. But we can't sign right now" he attempted to comfort her, and even if she was still shivering in desperation, she knew he wasn't to blame.

She smiled at him, one of those pitiful smiles that show nothing but sympathy, even if she was the troubled one. "Of course, I understand, I do. Until tomorrow then" she promised delicately, bottling up her frustration as she stood up, ready to leave. "Tomorrow Clara, I promise" he replied in a tone so reassuring it even made her feel more embarrassed of her selfishness. She limited herself to nodding and widening her smile a little, leaving the office as soon as she got the green light to do so from him.

As she walked towards the parking lot, breathing got more and more difficult with each step, each step more and more rushed than the step before. It'd be okay, she told herself, even if her legs shook and quivered in fear. It'd be okay, she told herself, because she'd marry Danny no matter what. I'd be okay, she told herself, even if for once she wasn't in control. Not even of her properly terrified self.

For an institution under the name of 'The Silence', John found it to be absolutely boisterous (and that considering that he wasn't precisely the quietest person in the Universe). People seemed to run from corridor to corridor, always in a rush. Most of them barely gave him a second glance, and the one of those who did was nothing but judgemental. It didn't surprise him in the slightest, because at fancy places like that a man dressed in a bowtie and an old tweed wasn't often very welcome. In fact, the opposite. He was chased around ad thrown out at the slightest opportunity. But this time, none of it worried or bothered him in the slightest. Indeed, he found it funny. Because for once, he hadn't sneaked in there. He'd been called. For once, it wasn't clothing or wine or shoes for sale in his briefcase, no. It was his latest invention, a time measuring device, lying safely in his briefcase and about to be presented to someone who would potentially buy not one, but maybe hundreds!

As he walked, trying to find the one person, or well, office, he was looking for in the middle of that hive of people, he held a tight grip of his briefcase, fingers gently stroking it in a spirit of hope so innocent, his heart seemed to glow and beat so fiercely he feared it might escape his chest. "Not now, aye? We can die all you want later, but first, we have to sell this thing" he whispered to his drumming organ, which seemed to listen and started beating more normally. That until it felt it was being watched, and communicated this sentiment to him by drumming once more.

He scanned around, and found a brunette curiously staring at him. She was dressed slightly more casually than everyone else, but he noticed the ID hanging from her blouse, sign that she worked there. The curiosity in her eyes wasn't malicious. It was, if anything, amused by a man that'd just talked to his_ heart_. Seeing her as her one opportunity to find his buyer, he approached her, warm grin in his face, his steps turned to wary strides, all and all the look of a comical man despite his attempt of seriousness.

" Psssst. Hey. You. Yes, you. Do you happen to know where Madame Kovarian is? I was told she'd be here, but -between you and me - I don't even know what she looks like" he confessed, a whisper so casual anyone who witness the scene would've believed he and the strange woman had known each other for years. Yet, she stared at him so oddly (actually, stared at him awkwardly because _he _was so odd) and remained silent, ending the illusion of familiarity between them. Both terrible with subtleties and impatient as he was, he downright stared at her ID, thinking it would be best to try a more personal approach to his question. "Well, Lorna Bucket, do you know where Madame Kovarian is?" he asked again, raising his thin brows playfully, his smile expanding to the point of dimples, convincing her to smile too.

"She was just holding a conference in the third floor, but now she's probably at her office on the fifth. Be careful though, she's not really that keen on strangers. Or people, really. If she asks, I didn't send you there" she warned him, all in friendly spirits now. Everyone around them kept rushing around and about, and by the way her eyes twinkled at conversation, he figured maybe in this institution, the majority wasn't really keen on people. "Don't worry, _she's_ called me in" he responded proudly and then winked at her, unaware of the flirtatiousness of it. She snorted shyly, perhaps in disbelief of it, and since quite a few heads had turned her way, she cut her laugh abruptly. Not wishing to draw more attention to themselves, she parted towards wherever she was originally headed, giggle in the corner of her lips, and he slid his way to the elevators, confidence dragged along in every movement.

Even in the elevators, no one spoke a word. No one asked what floor he was headed to, nor offered to press the corresponding button for him. Even if he found it cold and ill mannered, he assumed he was the cause of this infectious behaviour. Everyone but him wore suit and tie, ID well placed somewhere noticeable and perfectly shined shoes. Snobs, he concluded. Just the sort of people he so detested. Throughout the lift, he swayed on his fit and mentally hummed a song he'd probably just invented, observing as everyone descended on different floors until he was the only one left. There were sixth and seventh floors, but given the pretentious structure of the institution, he assumed the highness of the office was related to the highness of the rank, and that not many people would ever go to those floors.

When the doors finally opened for him, it felt as if it'd been the doors of the world that'd opened. The blue lobby was practically empty, but decorated in a way luxurious enough to let him know that if this woman supported him, soon enough his Amy and Aunt Shannon would have rooms as equally luxurious, and that was more than he could ever ask for, but exactly what they deserved. He walked out of the elevator carefully, as if his mere presence could break the atmosphere of the room. His usually obnoxious movements were reduced to quiet, tip toed steps to the empty counter and from there, to a series of doors with names and schedules recorded on uniform plates. Almost unwarily, he sniffed the air. The black wooden doors remained scented of something he'd never smelled before, and the perfumes of all women in the building had somehow merged into a scent that lured him in and made him cough at the same time. Definitely weird, most certainly the kind of place he didn't belong to. Luckily, the third door was the one meant for him.

'Madame Kovarian, Head of Archaeology Research and Religious Studies. '

Fancy titles, those were. Hesitantly, he knocked on the door once. No response. He knocked a little louder. No response. Third knock, no response. Of course she wouldn't be there. Of course she would've forgotten about meeting someone as unmemorable as _John Smith_ (sometimes he believes 'Common Ordinary' would've made more impressive a name). Just as he was about to turn on his heels and leave, the miraculous door opened. He hadn't the faintest of what he'd expected, but that woman was **not **it. Well, actually, he did have a pretty good idea of what he'd expected. Someone with a vintage sense of glamour to her, the fire of adventure burning in her eyes. Someone with a smirk hidden on the corner of her lips. Someone like _Mels_, only older.

This woman was the entire opposite. She was older than expected, and dressed in the most boring black business suit he'd ever had the misfortune of seeing. She had a patch in one eye, matching back, and her other eye was a blue so boring and dead it might as well have been black too. She inspected him from head to toe, overpainted red lips curling up in a way that showed nothing he could read, it could be disapproval or impression, loathing or immediate fondness. He'd never know, so all he could do was stick up his chin and grin at her, once more swaying on his feet, arms swaying his briefcase along.

"You must be John Smith, Melody Malone's _recommended_ person" she scoffed, and ugh, what a voice! As if her looks weren't slug like enough. Not to mention that the way she stirred Mels' name and the word 'recommended' almost gave him goose bumps.

"That's me indeed" he replied, fixing his bowtie in a feeble attempt to regain and gather both his confidence and charm. If this woman would be his key to a better life, he really shouldn't mind if it was a rather old and ugly key.

"Do come in, can't wait to see what you've got for me" she sizzled, then re-entering her office without even bothering to check if he'd followed. The Office was almost as lifeless as her, and he gulped as he stepped in out of nervousness. The walls were a spotless white, all furniture black. There wasn't a single flower, a single photograph. Only titles and titles, awards and awards methodically placed on what seemed endless shelves, and piles of papers sitting on her desk. He sat on a metallic chair opposite to the black velvet one she'd placed herself in. Feeling his anxiety levels increase at a preoccupying rate, he decided to focus on nothing but his breathing. Inhale, exhale.

"Will you show me whatever you've brought, or not? I haven't got time to waste" Kovarian hissed, making him lose both count of his breaths and his calm simultaneously. "Oh yes yes, of course" he barely whispered, smiling nervously. As if he weren't clumsy enough when calm, this stress caused his fingers to lose all disposition to cooperate in the difficult task of opening the briefcase. Once he did, he almost dropped the tiny scanner it contained, but rescued it just in time.

"This is what I call a _Time Scanner._ It's a brilliant name, really. It looks tiny but, but, I've given it a database of all the things in the Universe" he started explaining, showing her a tiny plastic box with two buttons, a modest screen, a speaker and some panels he'd soon put to use. "Pens, paper, cloth, anything. You name it, it remembers it. And when you put it against one of the things and press the red button, it reads the elements and goes ding! After it goes ding, it can give you a very precise lecture of the thing's age, quality, and you know, stuffy stuff" he concluded, the familiarity of the object in his hands transferring him a bit of confidence.

"Interesting. Mind to demonstrate?" she demanded, her eyes fixed on both him and his device. As a seller, he was used to being the predator, the chaser, not the scared prey whose hands felt ice cold in fear. He took a deep breath, disguising it as he could, turned on his scanner with the blue button and grabbed a piece of paper, then placing it atop the panels. Soon enough, a metallic voice spoke. _"Scan Results: Waxed Paper. Age: 8 months 9 days 7 hours and 4 minutes approximately. Tree of source: Unknown. Durability: Indefinite. Paper contains 18 millilitres of ink. Ink was injected approximately 1 day 4 hours and 37 minutes ago. End of scan"_ And then he breathed normally. If she wasn't impressed, she was just wrong. His every muscle relaxed, and he even took the liberty to lean on the chair, total boss of the situation. His smile was so wide and cocky, it was hard to believe he'd been so preoccupied instants ago.

She raised her brows, and he assumed that was as much of a compliment as he'd receive. "Impressive, Mr. Smith. Very impressive" she finally complimented him, and although she sounded almost as mechanical as the machine, he felt (or thought he felt) a pinch of excitement in her voice. She then extended her palm, and he cringed at the similarity they held with mythical claws. Her red painted nails were long and sharpened, so he grabbed the scanner by the lower end and handed it to her from the upper, fearing she'd scratch his hand out given the chance. And oh, what a terrible mistake he'd made.

As soon as she held the scanner, she admired every inch of it fervently, and he feared she'd tear it apart with the strength of her gaze. "Amazing, Mr. Smith. This little device is truly amazing. Miracle of modernity" she purred in a delight he didn't understand. "You know what else is amazing, in this modernity? The gullibility of some people. And oh, the audacity of burglars now a day, can you believe?" she asked, half speaking half laughing. And then he understood. Quick as he could, he reached for his scanner back, but she was even quicker to shove it in a drawer and raise her phone's speaker.

"Security! There's a cheap burglar in my office! Come throw him out! And check the security tapes of the building. Whoever pointed him to my office will be fired first thing tomorrow morning" she shrieked in fake preoccupation while displaying the most cynical of smiles to him. Funny how time worked, because what he knew was barely instants seemed years. He should've run away. He should've protested. He should've done anything but sit there, in complete shock and utter disbelief of what had just happened to him. It had to be a nightmare, it just had to be. His one relevant, functioning invention couldn't have been ripped apart from him so easily, no. The world had to be better, a little fairer than that.

The footsteps of security people were audible, soon he'd be thrown out of the building just as he'd been thrown out so many times before from so many other buildings. But this one time, he felt particularly humiliated. His world, his hopes and his one chance had crumbled before him, and the disgusting woman before him seemed delighted to be witnessing it. "It was my privilege to fool you, Mr. John Smith" she whispered, smiling a genuine smile for the first time and he was unsure of what sickened him most, the sweet joy of her tone or the repulsive of her smile. She opened her office door, and in perfect timing, two guards much bigger than him dragged him out of the office effortlessly.

He didn't have the energy to fight them. He didn't have the energy to protest when he was dragged to the parking lot and kicked in the stomach. He didn't have the energy to stand up when they went away, cackling. He didn't have the energy to do nothing but lay there, close his eyes and wish to wake up from his greatest nightmare come true.

After an uncertain amount of time, he opened his eyes again, awoken by the buzzing of his cell phone. Three missed calls from Melody. If he hadn't worked so hard to afford it, he would've thrown his cell phone away that instant and curse Melody for ever suggesting him to go there. He didn't do the first, but he mumbled the second and ignored her fourth call. There was no waking up from this situation, he reckoned. Only moving on from it. 7:45 pm, read the phone screen. It was time to stand up, find his car, and face the unacceptable truth: he'd have to tell both Amy and Aunt Shannon about his tragedy. Even worse, he'd wasted the entire day on that bloody building, not making a single dime for Amy's tuition. With a sigh and an aching stomach, gentle reminder of his humiliation, he stood up from the floor. Despite everything, he stood.

He limped his way back to the TARDIS, and leaned against the familiar door of the driver's seat. He felt that the second he hopped in, time would suddenly speed up and the reality of his situation would become tangible, raw. "What will we do now, old girl?" he asked his metallic best friend, knowing there'd be no response. " I just got accused of being a burglar, so robbing a bank isn't that bad an option" he joked, but the laugh that came out of him was so bitter and spiteful, he frightened himself and decided he wasn't in the position to be funny. Giving in, he took out the key from his pocket, opened the door and sat down, all so practical, unenergetic and unlike him, he got that odd feeling of being an outside observer of his own movements.

After a few miles of driving back home, he realized sulking wouldn't do a thing for him. If he sulked, his mind narrowed, and clever was the only good thing he was. He started patting the steering wheel as he drove, desperate attempt to get back on his _groove_. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, and was positively thrilled to see those savages haven't damaged his bowtie. And it was cool. Cool enough to let his lips attempt a small smile, and his heart swelled a little. "It'll all be good. We'll get Amy's money somehow, won't we?" he asked rhetorically, but the TARDIS seemed to answer by turning on the radio, which casually played a sickeningly positive song. _Tomorrow. _He'd always claimed to dislike sticky, catching songs like that, but still he happened to know the lyrics and started singing along at the top of his lungs, like a prayer. A prayer for his problems to truly be solved. A prayer that being a day away meant that soon it'd all get better. A prayer for a miracle that would eventually present itself if he had enough faith.

He was so lost in the thought of miraculous _miraculousness_, that when two lights appeared behind him on the road, he thought it to be a divine happening. It took him a few instants to land into the idea that divine happenings were impossible, and then he was capable to give those lights a name and a shape: the headlights of a car struggling to try and get ahead of him. Soon enough, the beeping of its horn accompanied the lights, and he felt the annoyance he'd work so hard to rid himself of building up again in every fibre of his being. Given how preoccupied he was about getting home, he found it quite difficult to believe that anyone would be in a rush to get anywhere at all.

The car came closer and closer, never ceasing the beeping and the lights. Of course it'd be one of _those_ cars. Perfect, dreamy, commercial fit car. Red, new model, so shinny it could blind whoever stared for too long. He shook his head and dismissed the thought, feeling unfaithful to his beloved. "Never mind them. You're still the best ride in the universe" he stated absolutely convinced. By the time he ended the love fest, they were now side by side with the red menace. A bit cross with the world, he observed the pretentious driver. Oh, of course it had to be a girl. Oh, of course it had to be a girl _on the phone_. A girl, with a funny nose, _on the phone._ She flipped her hair to place her phone below her ear, and for a brief second he was terrified she'd caught him staring. But instead of minding him, all she did was (probably) step her pedal more fiercely and get ahead of him in a flash. He scoffed, still cross with all people who seemed in the slightly similar Kovarian, even if it was a merely monetary similarity. He hated all rich people, he'd decided.

_Alaska-Car, _was visible in shinning letters right above her plate, '0SW1N'. He fancied believing that her name was Oswin, from Alaska, and that she was pretentious enough to let the whole world know via custom made letters and plate that she, Oswin from Alaska, owned a bright, shiny new red car. But no Oswin from Alaska, or anyone again, would simply step (or drive, in this case) over him again. "You up for some fun?" he asked his TARDIS, imitating Oswin's fierce pedal usage and placing himself ahead of her with a playful "Aha!"

Much to his disappointment, no race was initiated. He hadn't wished to properly start a race, but at least he'd expected that she'd beep again or do anything at all. But when he spied her through the rear-view mirror, there was no one in sight! The car seemed empty, and he stared, startled, until her hair made an appearance, her cheeks struggling to not let the phone slip (again, presumably) from her neck. He shook his head in disapproval, and denied the small smile that this Oswin had caused him. Bonkers, to drive unconsciously like that. But his smile lasted little to nothing, for this Oswin had been distracting enough to keep him from seeing the enormous truck coming towards them.

The next few seconds were so quick and terrifying, they practically became a blur. Truck. Evasive manoeuvre. Oswin on the phone. Ravine. Oswin spiralling down the ravine. Oswin spiralling down the ravine, his evasive manoeuvre having thrown her there. Oswin spiralling down the ravine, and his manoeuvre having thrown her there!

The thought landed in, and he was paralyzed in fear. Would this terrible nightmare of a day ever end, him waking up in the safety of a different reality? Inhalation, exhalation. Oswin had been on the phone, hadn't she? She could've caused this tragedy on herself without his help. Yes, yes she could've. No, it hadn't been quirky of her to be on the phone while driving, it'd been absolutely reckless. No, it hadn't been reckless of him to get distracted observing her, because she was the one doing the reckless thing to begin with! His shivering hands took the lever, his feet the pedal and he was about to start the car again when he saw the one sunflower sticker a younger Amy had glued to his TARDIS's radio. He thought of Amy on her phone. He thought of reckless Amy doing something reckless, and suddenly Oswin was Amy, therefore free of any guilt. He told himself that he was better than this. He wouldn't run walk away on Oswin, no sir, because he'd hate anyone who walked away on Amy.

Fearful, he hopped out of his car with one goal only: to find Oswin and get her help. The night was, or seemed, incredibly darker than any other, and he found himself wondering when it'd gotten so late of if this was a mere time illusion of this never ending nightmare. The smell of guilt, scented in ashes and burning plastic, tingled in the air like the plague of his own guilt. The grass surrounding the road almost reached his knee, and he wondered if he'd ever find Oswin in the middle of this green puzzle. Multiuse screwdriver of his own invention in hand, properly named _Sonic Screwdriver, _he wandered around, a little green light emanating from it. He was about to call for her, but then realized how silly it'd be because her name probably wasn't even Oswin. How he wished he knew her real name, or who to call. Rather unsure if it was his fear or the tricky wind, despite the heat that Oswin's exploded car spread, he felt a shot of cold and panic through his spine, quickly throwing through his veins and reaching his every muscle. His desperation to find Oswin increased, as did his panic and his wish for her to be okay.

Suddenly, a moan. It had to be Oswin's! He followed the sound for a few steps, adrenaline shushing the ache of his own knees and feet, until he found her. She laid on the grass, her right leg visibly injured and the certainty of the coldness in the air manifested though her every muscle shivering, convulsing even. The way she had her eyes shut so hard made him kneel beside her immediately, for they demonstrated the intense paid she was surely experiencing. He now observed her in full detail. The funny nose he'd already noticed, the petite of her height, the shape of her eyebrows and the perfect curves of her lips, the delicate of her skin and the impossibly _cakey_ scent of her. Much to his dismay, he was now hopelessly devoted to the task of saving her. He caressed her hair (also noticing how soft it was), but she complained in a groan and he had to pull apart instantly. She opened her eyes briefly, and in that second he knew for her to be named anything but Oswin would be a sin. He attempted to smile at her, but she closed her eyes again so quickly, his panic only increased. Laying there would be no good for neither of them, so he tried and figured out a strategy to carry her to his TARDIS. But at the tiniest attempt he made of moving her, she almost shrieked, and he found himself kissing her forehead without even reasoning it. "It's okay, it's okay Oswin. You'll be okay I promise" he vowed. "I'm sorry" he whispered to her, and in a single move he was now successfully carrying her, despite her growled complaints.

After placing her on the passenger's seat, he was forced to return near to the spot where he'd found her, now in the hunt for anything that might help him, or help her, find any sign of who she was and who he should warn about what'd happened. The fire had ceased, and sonic screwdriver in hand, he took it upon himself to examine the damage in her car (because despite his attempts to push the thought away, he knew he'd have to somehow pay for it). It wasn't too bad, all things considered. Half of the engine remain, and even if the tires were gone, her purse was intact. Miraculous _miraculousness_, he decided.

The itch of being nosy irritating his neck, he told himself it was a mandatory examination, so he went ahead and opened the purse. Ultra-Modern Cell phone with dead battery (good going, Oswin). Book: Summer Falls (nice choice). Agenda: No contacts but far too many appointments (really, Oswin?). Photograph: Oswin and stranger in the Park (irrelevant.) Wallet: Business cards and IDs (ding dong!). Half out of curiosity half out of genuine need, he took out the first card in hand.

_ALASKA – CAR  
>LONDON'S BEST CAR AGENCY <em>

_Clara Oswald  
>Sales Manager <em>

_Office: 020 7889 4561  
>Mobile: 020 6783 2704<br>e-mail: _

Without really meaning to, he smiled at the sight of her email, and then reminded himself that he was in no position to be all giggly about anything. He wondered what the 'in' could possibly stand for, now that he'd found out her real name was Clara (not half as good a name as Oswin, if you asked him), and before his hands even consulted him on the matter, they'd already slipped the card on his pocket. Scolding himself for not focusing on the matter, he continued to examine the rest of her cards and found out that, thankfully, she had a medical insurance and the cards of two contacts he could probably phone: Jenny Flint and Danny Pink. He also riddled the fact that she liked people with last names that only had 'i' as a vowel, concluding that if, no, not if, **when** she woke, she would definitively like him. And she'd definitively also like his new name suggestion for her, because Oswin was much closer to her 'i' standards than Clara. There he was again, smiling again at assumptions about her he'd built out of thin air, and as soon as he realized it, he smacked his hand against his forehead (stupid, stupid John!), grabbed her purse and rushed back to her.

He hadn't the faintest of where the nearest Hospital was, but each shiver of hers made him wish one would pop out of thin air at the next curve. Feeling absolutely inadequate, he simply drove faster and faster until his wishes came true in the shape of the tiniest hospital he'd ever seen, but a hospital nonetheless. He kissed her forehead once more and deeming it best to leave her in the car and get help (he wasn't qualified to keep carrying her around and about), he rushed his way out of the car and inside the hospital reception.

The night was cold on its own, but when he walked inside, the cold felt even colder. Hospitals were despicable places, but this one seemed like the stolen picture of a cliché horror movie (or was today just his personalized horror movie?) The floor was squared in different shades of blue, but so dirty that even he of all people believed it to be absolutely insanitary. The lights flickered and the one nurse on the counter popped her bubble-gum in perfect sync with the lights, making that one song Amy often heard about a woman strangling a man for popping his gum make perfect sense. A few people sat scattered across the reception, but most of them dragged a serum bottle, indicating that they were decaying patients with no hopes of finding a better place to heal at. Frustrated with the situation, he stomped his way to the nurse and stared at her impatiently as she popped her gum one last time, than glancing up at him, annoyed. "What?" she asked, renewing her chew an pop cycle once again.

"What? I've got a - my wife's outside. Someone hit and run on us. She's in the blue car" he lied by instinct. He really didn't wish to explain that he'd been the one to cause the accident, because then the police would be involve and his chaos would turn into a hell even more chaotic.

"Right. I'll send a stretcher right away. You can fill this entry from in the meantime" she replied, so droningly she wondered if there was any humanity in being a nurse if patients meant so little to you. He grabbed the entry form (a bit roughly really) and sat angrily at the empty chair closest to the counter. His distress only grew as he read the information required because he knew none of it, other than her name and age. Tapping the pen incessantly, he debated on making up the information before his grouchy brain reminded him that he was no authority to do so, nor did he have the permission to do it either, and that he needed to phone Clara's people with the 'i' last names and let them handle the situation. Sneakily, he stood from his chair and stretched, cell phone in his pocket, pretending to be an exhausted husband who only needed a walk.

In a hidden corner, he took out his cell phone and nervously dialled the first number in hand (Jenny's). Beep Beep. _Please help me_. Beep beep. _Not me then, Clara_. Beep Beep. "Hello?" a young woman finally replied, and he was struck by the sudden notion of not having the faintest of what to say. 'Hi, I caused someone called Clara an accident and she has your number. Come find her at the worst Hospital ever. Toddle do' wasn't precisely an option. " - Hello? Anybody there?" the voice insisted, and he reckoned lies would be his best cards to play. "Goodnight Miss. I'm phoning from the-" he looked around, and thankfully the Hospital's name was dreadfully drawn on the opposite wall "- St. John's Hospital. We have Miss Clara Oswald here, she suffered an accident on the Birmingham-London road. You were one of her emergency contact numbers" At least that bit had been true.

Silence came from the other side of the line for what seemed the longest of time. Panic overcame him. What if this Jenny knew he'd caused the accident? Or worse, what if she barely knew Clara and wouldn't do a thing for her? Droplets of sweat started evidencing his fears when he finally heard noises. "Who are you?" inquired Jenny, clearly concerned about Clara (which could be either good or terrible for him). "The Doctor" he replied, afterwards realizing how dumb a reply that'd been. "What Doctor?" Jenny's voice snapped right back. "Just the Doctor" he snapped as a final sentence. "Sir, if you're just a pranker, this really isn't funny" Jenny's voice insisted. "I'm not a prankster, promise. Just come find her, okay?" he implored, wishing to get the call and the situation done with as soon as possible. "St. John's Hospital, you said?" Jenny's voice asked, along with the flipping of pages and the ticking of a pen. "St's John's, yes" he verified. "We'll be right there" BEEP BEEP.

Exhausted from the day, he slinked back to his chair and set the paper's aside, for Jenny or whoever to fill when they arrived. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather the energy he would require to get home at last. The thing with Kovarian felt like it'd happened months ago, and he still hadn't thought of the words to explain it. And oh, his beloved TARDIS. He honestly hadn't had the time to make sure she was doing okay, but after a crash like that the poor thing must've been traumatized. He loosened the grip of his bowtie, as if some of his problems would simply slip from his neck.

"Sir, sir" they returned with the voice of that bubble gum nurse. "Sir, you've got to see your wife" she insisted grumpily, and in his half asleep state he almost mumbled ' I don't have a wife', but then remembered the whole muddle he'd gotten himself into and immediately incorporated his sleepy mind. "Follow me" the nurse commanded, slipping her feet slowly enough for him to stand up and catch up.

The little room she lead him too was deplorable to say the least. Even if it wasn't as dirty as the reception, he knew it wasn't right for a hospital. There were around ten beds, all with different patients, scattered around the room, and none of them seemed to have a serum or proper medication. They were just there, some sleeping, some mumbling, and Clara shivering. She was shivering much more constantly and roughly than before, and when he touched his forehead, he retired it immediately, for he feared his body heat could burn her from how cold she was. About to explode in complaints, he was, when a real Doctor, short and chubby, struggled his way next to him. "She's not doing okay, clearly. Leg's in a fatal state, will probably need an intervention. Neck's injured to, and her hypothermia is alarming", the Doctor announced, and John tried not to care. He told himself that that Jenny woman would be here anytime soon to deal with all of it, but then Clara shivered again and he found that he didn't have it in him to leave her. "What will you do then?" he asked the Doctor, who now filled some papers about Clara probably. "What will I do? Sir, we haven't got medicines here. All we can do is try and control her hypothermia, but the rest of what she needs, you'd have to get" the Doctor confessed, and John's mouth opened in a perfect 'o'.

"A hospital with no medicines? That's, that's just unacceptable! No, unbelievable!" he screamed at the Doctor, who had no fault therefore no care for the situation. "I'll give you the prescription of what she needs. Whether you want to get it or not, that's entirely your choice" the Doctor announced, then giving John a paper with the messiest handwriting he'd seen. John had no choice but to nod, knowing Clara deserved better than to be abandoned with a lot of incompetent people.

"When you come back, you can talk to the police, for your statement on the accident" the Doctor added, making John start an inner ethic debate again. If he took this opportunity to sneak out, Clara would be left without medicine until that Jenny arrived, if she arrived. If he did the right thing and returned, he'd be putting himself in the eye of the hurricane. So immersed on his mental struggle, he missed Clara mumbling _blue car. _So immersed, he missed the Doctor noticing it. So immersed, he finally concluded that leaving Clara was not a choice.

So he folded the prescription, put it on his pocket and asked the bubble gum nurse where the nearest pharmacy was, not bothering to talk to or look at anyone else. He almost sprinted inside his car again, and he could've sworn he heard his best girl whisper _'run' _to him when the engine started. But this once, he didn't listen. He simply did as he was told, drove for a certain amount of minutes, turned left a certain amount of times and parked at a certain spot. It wasn't until he saw the giant clock below the pharmacy's 'OPEN 24 HOURS' advert that he realized how late it was: three forty five am. Three forty five am and sixteen missed calls on his phone.

The pharmacy was almost as tiny and shameful at the hospital, but at least the man who attended him had better manners and a funny accent that made him, unexplainably, more trustworthy than anyone he'd met that night. While the man took off to look for the medicines, his phone rang once more, and he debated on simply ignoring the call until he saw it was Amy phoning. Of course she'd be concerned, how could he be selfish enough to forget about that. "Pond!" he chanted, faking that everything was okay in this world. "Where the hell have you been?" she asked, so furious he could almost see her frown and her scrunched freckled nose through the phone. "Places. A lot's happened. But I'll be home real soon. You shouldn't worry, and you should sleep. You've got the Modelling thing tomorrow, haven't you?" he tried to cheer her, but only dug his own grave in the memory of not having the money she needed for tuition. "Have I?" she asked, clearly excited. "See you tomorrow Pond" his heart sunk, and he hung up, for he couldn't bear the call any longer.

Just in time, the funny accented man returned with the medicines and explained certain things John didn't have the head to understand. Then he paid for them, using the last resources on his wallet, and headed back to the hospital as quickly as the wheels allowed. All he wished was for the surreal experience that'd been that day to end. Admittedly, he almost feel asleep on the road, but was woken up by the sight of the hospital and two parked cars that _certainly _weren't there before. One of them was yellow and tiny (he voted it the prettier one) and the other one was silver, as fancy as or even fancier than Clara's. A part of him wished that were the people Clara would want there, and the other part panicked at the thought of those people knowing Clara. Because if they knew Clara, they'd know he certainly wasn't the husband, and questions would be asked. Questions with one answer: he'd been the accident detonator.

Fearful, John slipped back inside the reception. Then he attempted to tiptoe his way around to the room where Clara was, but he ended up being held back by a face and eavesdropping a conversation that sounded more like his death sentence. On the counter, talking to the bubble gum nurse, was a tall, dark skinned man who he could immediately recognize as the stranger in Clara's park picture. And what he said was the most frightening thing of all.

"Yes, her fiancé. Danny Pink", the park stranger yapped at the bubble hum nurse, his concern highlighted in the way he practically spit the words at her, desperately trying to convince the exasperating woman of something John was practically convinced was true.

"Fiancé? Not sure I'm buying that, sir" the nurse responded in between chew and pop cycles. "The man who just walked in, he says he's her husband" she added, her eyes suddenly meeting John's and causing all heads to be turned his way.

And in that moment of impact, he regretted not having run away from the chaos when he still could.


	3. Consequences

**Hello there! First of all, huge thanks for your patience and support. Second, I know the story may seem a little slow and too much Danny involved right now, but you'll see the whouffle soon, I promise. Third, I don't know why the mail didn't show on Clara's card :/ but he mail was supposed to be which was cute I think? ! I'll start working on the next update first thing tomorrow, and it'll be a lot shorter I hope. **

**Anyway, hope you all enjoy and read and review and all**

**"****The thing about real life is, when you do something stupid, it normally costs you. In books the heroes can make as many mistakes as they like. It doesn't matter what they do, because everything works out in the end. They'll beat the bad guys and put things right and everything ends up cool.****  
>In real life, vacuum cleaners kill spiders. If you cross a busy road without looking, you get whacked by a car. If you fall from a tree, you break some bones.<br>Real life's nasty. It's cruel. It doesn't care about heroes and happy endings and the way things should be. In real life, bad things happen. People die. Fights are lost. Evil often wins.  
>I just wanted to make that clear before I begun."<br>― ****Darren Shan****, ****A Living Nightmare**

**oooo**

With all eyes set on him, John's eyes looked at no one and for nothing other than the opportunity to escape, in any shape and size it could present itself. Not necessarily a door (although a door would've been brilliant) but a distraction. A scream, an entrance, anything that could drift the attention away from him. Yet, there was no luck. In comparison to the speed of his panicking brain, time seemed painfully slow. Each eye blink was a forced torture, and he dreaded that when he opened his eyes, he'd be face to face with Oswin's real soon to be husband or his menacing fist.

A few instants, and everyone remained shocked and absolutely motionless. The trance was broken when the soon to be husband shook his head, mentally scanning John from head to toe during what seemed the most terrifying instants of his life. Then he felt a second pair of eyes doing exactly the same, and noticed their owner: a petite woman in a leather suit. Not the kind of person he would've expected, but equally scary in her own way. They continued to stare as the nurse's chew and pop cycle was renewed. John might as well have been naked from how vulnerable he felt, as if he were the target of all their mental arrows. "You know him?" he asked her, his voice not at all what would've been expected of someone who'd marry Oswin. Out of eleven, he gave it a three. The petite woman shook her head. "Haven't got the faintest", she replied, not for a second breaking the stare. Silence. Absolute, deathly silence. John gulped, his feet aching in need to simply turn around and run, run as fast as he could, but his hands dictated him to stay, for they still held Oswin's medication and he wouldn't have spent his last dimes on it just to throw it away.

"Well then, speak" Danny broke the silence, now properly sounding how anyone should sound if anyone else claimed to be the husband of the Oswin they were planning on marrying. "I - I am the - I was in the - I just" John stuttered, and it was so unlike him, it almost seemed as if he'd heard someone else blabber so cowardly. Danny let out a deep sigh, perfectly accompanied by an eye roll, and turned to the leathered woman. "Jenny, go find Clara. Or her Doctor at least. Phone Linda as soon as you know anything. I'll deal with _this_" he instructed her, and she was quieter and quicker to leave than the passing drift of wind. Jenny Flint wind, he assumed.

Any relief he could've felt from Jenny walking away was immediately replaced by the imminent panic of Danny stomping his way towards him. Each stomp, he seemed to grow and grow into someone much taller than he'd dreaded. When he was close enough for details, John saw his panic justified in the shape of a pin on Danny's (clearly expensive) jacket. It wasn't just any pin, oh no, but an **army** commemorative pin. The kind he knew only the most respectable and heroic of soldiers could aspire to. And to John, someone people in the army found remarkable was the equivalent of a pretentious cretin. That Oswin and her bad choices, phoning while driving and dating an army person.

"Care to explain yourself?" Danny almost roared, interrupting his trail of thought. Knowing there was no charm that could work with people like Danny Pink, John decided to present his situation from a different approach. Tell his truth, but not necessarily the truth he'd been asked.

"You're probably cross about the whole me saying I was her husband thing, aren't you? Perfectly understandable, but you see, I just did it so they'd help her quicker. You know how these hospital people work, you say she's a stranger and they assume you don't care. They assume you don't care, they do nothing. It was probably a bad idea, but it worked, aye?" John explained, a lot chirpier than he actually was. Huge grin, trembling legs.

Danny huffed, clearly unable to debate his_ brilliant l_ogic, but still distrustful. "The lying was a terrible idea", he stated menacingly, and John for a second doubted the brilliance of his logic. "But you're right, at least it proved itself effective. What I'd really like to know is why you're here at all" Danny added, raising his brows so sharply they became an implied, enormous red question mark. Facing such mark, almost listening a ticking clock in the side, John's brain decided it was time to level even further up, processing speed quicker than the speed of light. Lying definitely wasn't a good idea with this Danny Pink, but the truth could be potentially worse. A mix and mingle of both could be the most effective method.

"I saw it all happen, her accident I mean. I was right behind her, not literally, but my car. We were both making our way, she was a tad slow but I didn't mind it, and then a truck came at us out of nowhere. At her, more specifically. The driver either ignored us or didn't even see us, and by the time she tried to make her evasive manoeuvre, it was too late and it came out wrong. Worse thing is, the truck driver just fled. I'm not the kind to run away though, so I parked and went to aid her. Got her to my car, brought her here and you know the rest. Bought her medicines even!" John explained, all half true. Then he presented the tiny bag he'd just acquired, and Danny examined it without a word.

Somewhat relieved, John turned on his heels to leave. Clara Oswin was safe, there was people who'd take care of her and he'd done his best. Hurriedly, he pranced his way through the dirty corridor, the glorious door just a few steps away when Danny's voice made itself audible again, his breathing as rushed as John's. "Hey! You can't just walk away like that" he called him, and John loathed the military tone of it more than anything.

"I've got to. Have you seen the time? Family's waiting" John replied without slowing his pace or turning back. If he did, Danny would be able to read through his eyes, and through them, the evidence of his guilt. Besides, he really meant what he said. The clock ticked 5.17 AM, and he couldn't afford to lose another day worth of sales. He needed proper rest, a fresh reset of his mind-set.

"Sir, you witnessed Clara's accident. Justice has to be made, and we need you for it" Danny argued, his voice getting closer and closer. And while John agreed, he knew justice would find him guilty, and the thought of it made his every muscle shiver. "Won't be long, I promise. I'm a former _Colonel_. Know all the people to get the whole process done quickly. They're on their way. Walk away, and you'll become accomplice of whoever's hurt Clara. And you **don't **want that" Danny threatened him, but the threat had the opposite effect, encouraging John even further to slip away from the situation.

He perfectly could, couldn't he? He hadn't even left his name, and whatever story Oswin, no, Clara, decided on telling her military boyfriend when she woke, would be no problem of his. He'd be long gone, and even if she remembered the chaos, there'd still been a truck involved, and her phoning was undeniable. Yes, he could simply walk away.

But of course, the decision wasn't his to take nor did it last long. Sooner than he could convince himself not to worry about Clara Oswin anymore, Danny had caught up with his sloppy pace and trapped him by the right shoulder. And for a moment, from the touch, John felt nothing but empathy. Danny's hands were sweaty out of concern, and when he turned to face him, it seemed as if all of a sudden, dark circles had decided to latch under his eyes for further dramatic effect. Danny Pink wasn't a terrifyingly cruel soldier. Danny Pink was a terrified boyfriend. And it made perfect sense, he thought. If it were his Clara Oswin, he'd be just as anxious.

"I don't want that, honest. But I've really got to get home. - Tell you what. You let me go now, I shower, see my family, and come back just in time to say whatever you'd like me to say, talk to your cop friends all you like" John suggested with a sigh, contemplating the idea of actually sticking to his word. Maybe if he had the time to see Amy, tell her about this and promise her it'd all be fine, dealing with the consequences wouldn't be too bad.

"They're not cops. They're soldiers. But fine" agreed Danny, who now didn't seem too bad either. He only seemed exhausted, making John realize how exhausted he was himself. "I'll walk you to your car. You give me your number, to make sure you'll come back" Danny added and John nodded as both dragged their tired feet to the door. Finally, the door.

As some sort of destiny joke, John found himself cornered again in an instant. A jeep full of (presumably) Danny's uniformed men parked right outside the gates, and a Doctor walked towards them from the other side of the corridor. Neither of them were chasing nor pointing fingers at him, but he rushed his step just in fear that, if he took long enough, they might. Despite John's speed and long steps, Danny managed to walk side by side with him, not the slightest effort made.

Outside time didn't seem to have gone by. The sky was as starless and dark as it'd been the minute he'd crashed, and John wondered if it would ever shine for him again. Thankfully, Danny wandered off to meet with his men the second they were outside, giving him time to reunite with his precious TARDIS. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't had the time to make sure she was okay. He mumbled his apologies to her, and patted the door before opening it.

"Oi, where are you going?" a young voice shrieked, and even though he couldn't quite distinguish the owner due to the dark, he could tell it came from Danny's people. Soon enough the voice was accompanied by footsteps and the respective cause of them. Danny again, a very young man (probably the shrieking one) with a clumsy step and a strong redhead, the tallest of the three, who looked around forty.

"I told him I'd be on my way now" John mumbled, pointing momentarily at Danny before trying to shrink inside his car, but the redhead shut the door in his face, placing all his heavy weight on his precious girl, and John would've instinctively pushed him away if the situation were any different. "You shan't be on your way anytime soon, sir. We have to take your statement, wait for Miss Oswald's and see where the investigation leads us" the redhead announced in a raspy voice, probably used to screaming, and snapped his tongue. When John turned to Danny for help, all he received was an apologetic look and a tiny shrug. He would've been cross, he should've been cross, but he knew that if it were his Clara Oswin, he wouldn't behave any differently. He would probably behave even worse, chasing whoever had to be chased to make sure they paid. Still, Clara Oswin wasn't his and he could behave a bit reluctantly, so he defied with an exaggerated eye roll.

"That car yours, sir?" asked the younger one, sounding even younger if possible. He stared at the car curiously, eyes fixed on it, passing through every tiny inch in detail. John nodded and fixed his bowtie in pride, attributing this behaviour to how wonderful his TARDIS was and looked, considering her age. "All mine. Best ride in the Universe" he announced, wiggling his practically non-existent eyebrows at the young man.

"Mostly blue, I'd say" the young man replied absentmindedly. "What's with it with being blue?" John asked defensively, somewhat offended that of all wonders of his TARDIS, only the vibrant colour would go noticed. Danny frowned in confusion, but John could tell that it wasn't an ignorance based confusion. It was a suspicious, or recognition, based confusion. He felt his nervousness return, which made him unconsciously start balancing on his feet, swaying front and back like a scolded child (for he felt like a child, defenceless and guilty).

"It has everything to do, sir. Doctor Davis said Miss Oswald had been muttering two words all along: blue car" accused him the young man. John felt all the colour in his cheeks, and the rest of his body, vanish into a perfect white, full disclosure of his panic. His focus on the disappearing colour was such, that he didn't register Danny approach his precious TARDIS, circling it like a predator. "There's lots of blue cars in the world" John argued, excelling at the one thing he was brilliant at when panicking: getting himself in even more trouble.

"Oh, you bet there is. But I bet **you**, there's not plenty around here. And not all blue cars in the world have dents in the exact same shade of red painting Clara's car had. Freshly made too!" Danny huffed in the most dragon like of fashions, his every cell irradiating a fury that made him look taller, stronger even. A proper dragon, he seemed, his hands touching the precise spot where the TARDIS had hit Oswin's car. Clara's car. John felt that not only colour had escaped his body, but also all energy, disposition, and even memory of how to move. He simply stood there like a moppet, fear invading him with such strength his muscles became rocks, stones thrown at him from every direction.

"Told you sir, told you!" the young soldier exclaimed happily, jumping up and down, arms waiving triumphantly for Danny's attention as if this were a boy scout meeting and he'd just finished the scavenger hunt first. How easy it was to be a young and naïve soldier, John thought. "Shush, Bradley" hissed Danny, as unamused with the situation as John.

"This is just a misunderstanding" intervened John, but he knew it was pointless. All evidence accused him, and there clearly wouldn't be a way to escape Danny Pink's wrath. "A misunderstanding? You just lied to my face about the accident, and tried to get away with it, Mr. - You haven't even told us your name!" roared Danny, silencing everything around them. If there was a time to be properly terrified, this was it.

"John Smith" mumbled John, so softly, it'd been almost as if silence had remained unaltered. But like any angry dragon, Danny hadn't missed it.

"John Smith? _John Smith_? What sort of fool do you take me for? I demand you present your real credentials. Probably best for you to stop with the lies. You're in enough trouble as it is" warned him Danny, intensifying his glare to the point where John genuinely believed the man's look could either read his mind or pierce a hole through a wall. Shyly, John took out his wallet and presented his ID. Danny's brows raised as he read the name, and John had never felt more embarrassed of it. "So, he _is_ John Smith. Unbelievable" he stated, a mocking laugh blurted out bitterly, and his men looked at each other with genuine amusement.

"Shall I take him to the commissariat then, sir?" asked the redhead, much to John's surprise. Danny was a former high rank, he was a current. The notion that he was still under Danny's command petrified him, because it only meant that Danny had to be someone very, very important. And he'd just crossed him.

"Immediately. Make sure Deputy Stewart knows who put him there, and that he's not to be freed until I say so. Understood?" commanded Danny, fully displaying the reason why he was as important as he probably was. "What about his car, sir?" asked Bradley eagerly, as if he would either get a chance to ride it, or a sticker on his forehead for asking. "To the deposit" replied Danny, absolutely fed up. And he turned, all sings implying that he just wished for nothing but to return inside the hospital and take a break. Still, he couldn't leave, could he? Not when he'd just commanded the TARDIS got sent to a horrible deposit, causing John to hold down a shriek of horror. "Yes sir!" exclaimed the redhead, clumsily followed by Bradley.

"Hang on! You can't take the TARDIS there, she'll get cross! And I've got lots of commodity inside!" Begged John, as the two men menaced to handcuff him. With a sharp cut of his walking, Danny turned to face him. "Shut up, Mr. John Smith. I don't care about your commodity, and if you argue that your car has emotion, I'll also call you mad when I see you in court. A mad, lying impostor who almost killed Clara and then called himself her husband. Don't speak a word again until you're out of my sight, or you can trust me to use it against you" Danny barely whispered, but with a ferocity intimidating enough to make up for the volume and make John feel tinier than the tiniest ant.

He saw no point in further resistance. Feeling equally tiny and defeated, he let himself be handcuffed and pushed inside the Jeep, where no one spoke a word to him. No one spoke a word at all, but in the air he could sense the unspoken respect for Danny Pink, who had, in practically less than an hour, found and captured the criminal responsible for his damsel's tragedy. Only because he'd been a very dumb criminal, hadn't he? Rescuing Oswin. Taking her to the hospital, and returning even when he'd had a chance to get away. Still, he knew better than the glares he received. He told himself that rescuing Oswin hadn't been dumb, it had been right, and that as soon as she woke, Oswin would be one to appreciate the fact that he returned for her and ask her military boyfriend to set him free because he was a good man. Yes, he had faith in Oswin. Because while Clara didn't make the best choices, Oswin wouldn't be heartless enough to let her rescuer be judged for a mere accident. Oswin would remember that she was on the phone, and share the blame with him. Oswin would say, 'wasn't it incredibly brave and considerate of him to take me to the hospital?' and apologize for Danny's treatment, because Oswin liked people who had last names with 'i' as an only vowel and he was John Smith.

That hope made the entire following process much easier. He was shoved inside the ugliest commissariat he'd seen in his life (not that he had seen many. Or any at all, but he deemed his film knowledge to be sufficient for judging). Every wall was a depressing shade of green, and the air inside was either too hot or too cold, depending where he stood. The smell he didn't even want to think of, since it made him wonder why breathing was a primary need in the first place. Every office seemed the same, and in the biggest one, he was asked question after question and frowned upon during every single second, making it the worst room. Since he was a child, he'd never felt so lonely and devastated. The visit to Kovarian's office now seemed like a daydream, but the reminder that it'd actually happened made the nightmare he was living even worse. Once the accusations and questions were done with, he finally heard somewhat of a good thing: he'd be allowed a phone call, and probably a quick look at his car as soon as his condition was decided.

The one person he should've called was Amy, but he found himself dialling Craig's number instead. He figured Amy would get far too worried, worrying Aunt Shannon, and all they'd do was panic. Yes, his hands had been very wise by calling Craig indeed.

"- Hello?" snoozed Craig, landing John into a notion of time. The sun wasn't even up yet and he was already in trouble for another day.

"Hello, Craig? It's John, John Smith" he whispered nervously, almost fearing the deputy would make him hang up immediately just for being himself.

"John! Why're you calling at this hour? I mean, Sophie's going to be glad you called, but it's unlike you. Everything okay?" asked Craig, half asleep half preoccupied.

"Craig, I'm in trouble. Proper trouble. Not calling you as a friend. Well yes, but as a client friend" John whispered. "I'm in jail Craig. I had an accident and you're the best lawyer I know" he added, hoping flattery would be enough for Craig to jump out of bed.

"I'm the only lawyer you know" Craig teased, "But still, I do agree, I'm pretty great. Don't worry, I got your back. Where are you?" he asked, and just as John opened his mouth to reply, he had the phone snapped away from him. The deputy gave all the information and hung up, ripping him from all illusions of an extra phone call for Amy.

With no gentility, no consideration, no kindness, he was then shoved inside a tiny cell. Literally shoved, for all they did was push his every step from the tiny office to behind the bars. The green inside the cell was even greener in an upsetting way, and it happened to be one of those too cold spots. Naturally, there was barely enough space for him to sit on a small bed, a bed in a state that made him wish it were a rock instead, and wait for time to pass by. There was not a single window anywhere near, no clock, and no sign of time whatsoever. Other than him, the sulky one, the place was a messy chatter of criminals yapping at each other. Some of them were content, telling tales, while others threw vulgar insults shamelessly. Well aware that he didn't belong to either crew, John counted. He counted to a hundred a hundred times until he lost count, counted the bars of each cell and the cells to obtain a total number of bars. Counted the hairs on his head and the threads on his tweed. He counted how many things he'd counted. He counted until the smell disappeared and the noise was blocked. He counted until the green didn't seem as gloomy, and he could count the shades of it. He counted and counted, until someone shrieked his name. It was Craig!

John stood up in a snap, and pressed himself to the bars before even saying hello. Any good feeling he might've gotten out of Craig's presence was turned into concern the second their eyes met. Even if he was dressed in a perfectly comfortable suit, Craig looked devastated. Terrible at concealing bad news, he was. His eyes were swollen in panic, and if John didn't know better, he would've said Craig had been crying.

"John, you told me you were in proper trouble. Proper trouble is a _compliment_ for the mess you've gotten yourself into" Craig started, and as soon as John attempted to interrupt him, he shushed him with a single look. "I've gone to the Hospital and spoken to the relatives already. They're furious. Especially the Aunt and the Fiancé. The fiancé he's, he's terrifying. And powerful. I assume you've met him, because he's already told me he'd done and will do anything he can to keep you in the worst place for the longest time" he announced. But John wasn't as fearful.

"What about her, Clara? How is she?" John asked, letting himself stick to the belief that as long as Clara Oswin remained safe, he still had a bit of a chance of getting out.

"She'd just gotten into surgery when I interviewed the family. She's got some serious damage on her leg, but I'm afraid she'll make it out alive. Full recovery, even" Craig announced, and John could've exploded of happiness. Yet he limited himself to grinning, rubbing his hands excitedly and holding his tongue from screeching 'yippy yay!

"Wouldn't be so smiley about it if I were you. You two are the only two witnesses of what happened, and from what the fiancé told me, you ruined her life. Well, technically just her leg and her car, but she was getting married on Saturday, and now that's cancelled. That's kind of a woman's life. If she dies, we could go for the traffic accident version. She survives, and she'll want your head. And they've got Aaron Maitland as a lawyer. From what I've heard, he's even scarier than her soldier boyfriend" Craig explained, defeated. He rubbed his temple, leaning against the bars. If anyone were witnessing the scene, they'd even think he was the imprisoned one and not John.

John, on the other hand, hadn't the faintest of who Maitland was, but he trusted Clara Oswin and the belief that she wouldn't want his head. "Oswin's not like that, Craig. Trust me, when she wakes up, everything's going to be fine. If you'd met her! She's tiny, lovely tiny. And she's got the nose of the kindest person in the world, all funny. And her eyes, they're impossibly chocolate, wide enough for one to get lost. How could she not be the sweetest?" he rambled, hoping Craig would understand.

"Well, the family said her lawyer would be here to speak to you as soon as she woke and decided on what she wanted to do. I'll be here waiting until he does. For your own safety, let us hope she's really the sweetest- Can't really imagine it though, if she's acquainted to those people" Craig shivered.

"Don't worry. I don't know much about Clara, but I'm sure Oswin will help me in a heartbeat." John reassured him, adding to Craig's confusion.

"Oswin? Is she her sister or?" he asked, narrowing his eyes a bit, as if he were in the middle of an insane dream and hoped to wake soon.

"No! Oswin is Clara, Clara is Oswin. Oswin is what I named her, it's much more fitting" John replied with absolute certainty, and Craig limited his response to a face palm. "You've named her. You've named her! She's a woman you almost killed, not a pet!" Craig rambled, but John paid little to no attention.

"Come what may, I'm sure I won't regret saving her. Ever" John promised gleefully, and Craig seemed only more and more concerned with each word. Did John not realize the situation he was in? Each lost in a mind of their own, all they could do was wait for Clara to make up hers.

**ooooo**

There is the belief that, when you're dying, your entire existence flashes before you. And Clara Oswald, imaginative and daydreaming Clara Oswald, had always believed it to be true. After her mother died, Clara Oswald spent countless days searching for old photographs, visiting her mother's childhood home, finding out as much as she possibly could. Dave Oswald found it preoccupying, but he figured that if his daughter carried on with her life normally, _that_ would be an odd behaviour. What he didn't know was that Clara wasn't trying to deepen the wound, nor suddenly trying to get to know her mother. All Clara was doing was try to solve a puzzle, the puzzle of that her mother might've seen in her last instants of life. During the longest time doubt had consumed her, and when she finally expressed her concerns to her dad, he told her that it was a secret for her mother to know and them to wonder.

Even if she eventually stopped worrying, Clara Oswald never stopped wondering. Incredible as it was, she often made the wish to at least have a clue, be allowed to see a snippet of the memories her mum treasured most. They say be careful what you wish for, because life has a most paradoxical and complicated way to let wishes be granted. Clara Oswald saw memories, important memories. Clara Oswald was being allowed a sample of what it was like to die. **And she didn't like it**.

All there was to it was a buzz. A buzz in her head, a buzz in the back of her ear, the pulling back and forth between life and death. She knew nothing, she heard nothing other than the buzz and the shivering cold causing it, burning her every inch of muscle frozen. Then the buzz swayed its way to her head, like a pinch. She felt it perfectly, and gave it a metallic taste despite not remembering what anything else tasted like. Along it came the memories, shaking her.

_The white walls only emphasized the methodical aura of the place. The light was perhaps too intense, but she didn't mind it. Ticking of pens, clashing of high heels and endless fingers tapping at computer buttons incessantly. Each sound felt like a trigger for passing time, pushing it and speeding it up to the point where she swore she was sweating nervous. Then the man came back, perfectly grey suit and tie, took the chair in front of her and presented the papers. _

_"__Miss Clara Oswald, one of our most responsible account owners. It would be quite the sin for us not to lend you the money you're asking for, given your impeccable reputation" the man started, tapping his feet against the desk in a rhythm that made her want to smack him across the room and demand an answer. Yet, all she did was smile politely and carry on. "However, the amount of money you're asking for is just as impressive as your file. If you're truly in need of it, we'll need a property as guarantee" he stated, looking at her so cheerfully, he seemed to have given the best news in the world. _

_Pain in her chest, probably a melancholic heart protesting about the crime she was about to commit, she opened her briefcase and presented a set of papers, fingers having the ultimate difficulty letting go. "These are my father's house deeds. That house is worth over $600000 pounds, which I'm sure is more than enough to cover for the loan" she announced arrogantly. It was almost ironic how someone with a house of that worth now lingered in the fine edge of bankruptcy, and she pitied herself almost as much as she loathed the situation. _

_"__It will do quite well, Miss Oswald. I'm sure I needn't remind you of the loan terms. Your loan should be covered in twelve months, punctual payments" he stated, handing her a pen and the devious little papers that craved for her signature. And she had to other option but to sign._

_"__Excellent, Miss Oswald. That would be all. The transference of £400000 should be made to your account in a maximum of twenty four hours. Enjoy your day" he said, flashing her a smile that accentuated her impression of him (or any banker) being more hyena than human. Horrid creatures. She gave him forced smile in return, and opened her briefcase to put her deeds back in place. She hadn't even touched them when the man placed his claws on them, greedily. "These are staying with us, Miss Oswald. No matter how impeccable a client is, we need to be cautious when it comes to 400000 pounds" he announced, and although he tried to be funny, Clara only felt humiliated. "Of course" was her single reply, and she felt the need to rush her exit. Rush her exit before the angry tears she'd been holding back were too strong to be fought any longer. _

The buzz returned, waking her from the memory, and although her senses had been sharpened, Clara still felt numb. There were faint voices, but the energy to focus on their words, or even open her eyes, lacked. Her muscles felt heavy, and tried as she might to move, it felt as if they were not only reluctant about it, but stopped by something beyond her.

Making a tremendous effort, she overheard and deciphered two single sentences. 'She's waking' and 'sedate her'. She assumed she was the _she_, and too preoccupied about minutes that were being stolen from her, minutes of a time that was so precious, she felt the instinct to screech 'no', but it came out as a feeble whisper she very much doubted anyone'd been able to hear. And so, her concerns bundled up and climbed back into her head, tricking her into memory sleep once more.

_"__As you can see, the view is extraordinary. And the space is even more so remarkable, wide enough for you to always find if half empty, even after you've moved in and bought double furniture" the seller strutted, boring Clara with a talk she knew by heart. However, she had to reckon that he wasn't lying. The apartment was, without a doubt, one of the most spectacular she'd ever seen. Fairy tale like light entered through a huge window, and the smell of fresh wood made it feel like a home already. The walls were painted a promising, bright blue, as if inviting her to sprinkle it with many more colours, make it her own. And Danny's footsteps behind her chorused the symphony perfectly. She started joining it with the memory of the usual clashing frying pans when he made breakfast, the sound of his keys opening the door at night (at last after a long day!) and the sound of his laughter. She knew the place was meant for them. _

_He caught up soon enough, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, looking at her promisingly. "You know what they say, newly wed people need a home of their own, and this seems just like the one for us. So go on, break our illusions and tell the prize" Danny joked, although Clara knew it wasn't much of a joke. Both had tremendously well paid jobs, but she also had tremendously huge debts. And any problem of hers, Danny made it his, creating a series of financial disasters she didn't want him to be a part of. _

_"__Two hundred and eight thousand pounds, total. But we can arrange any credit or payment period as long as you make an initial payment of ninety one thousand as a guarantee. Which, mind you, should be as soon as possible. There's plenty of people interested" the seller announced with a grin, and Clara knew. Clara knew, as a seller, that the man had probably examined her and Danny from head to toe. Noticed his Ralph Lauren suit and her Burberry coat. Her rings. He'd assumed the same thing she would've assumed: that they were a spoiled and privileged couple with an unashamed disposition to spend money on themselves. And the 'many people are interested' card had just been a bonus, a final wrap of the sale. _

_"__Right. Danny, mind double checking the kitchen? I'd hate it if it weren't soufflé equipped" she suggested him, and hoped he'd understand it was her way of saying it was time to leave her alone for the negotiations. Her business side wasn't pretty, and Danny had learnt to fear it and read the signs it gave whenever it was about to take over her in total transformation. So he nodded and vanished, already filling the place with his footsteps. _

_"__Listen, we're on the same field, so any trick you try, I've probably already pulled off and made a trend" Clara said, her tone of voice now absolutely methodical and bossy. "I'm getting this apartment, that's final. But he mustn't know, it'll be a wedding surprise. I'll transfer ninety five thousand pounds to you today, no more showing the apartment. The rest I'll start paying until after my honeymoon, and during a payment period of two years. Clear?" she stated, leaving no room for questions. The seller stared for a few seconds, his mouth a perfectly shaped 'o', and shook his head in an attempt to process her commands. _

_"__Crystal clear, ma'am. You deposit today, and the apartment is yours. I'll meet you Friday at nine in the morning at the notary, to sign the deeds" he finally blabbered, "I'm sure I needn't say that if you fail to show up Friday, you'll lose the apartment and the ninety three thousand pounds you'll be giving me as guarantee" he reminded her, and Clara popped her lips impatiently with a roll of her eyes. "Of course I know. Same field" she replied annoyed. "Congratulations then, Miss Oswald. Apartment's all yours"_

"No!" she shrieked, hopefully a bit more audibly this once, when the felt the sharp end of a needle find its way around her arm. She wouldn't, she couldn't, let another second of her time be wasted. There should've been a certain recognition, or at least a consciousness, of where she was. There should've been a latent pain in her leg, there should've been a feeling of nausea at the smell of metal, medicines and all indicators of hospital, but there was nothing. There was nothing but a flaming exasperation, giving her every muscle the impulse to shake and shiver, to let her bones and flesh spread into wings and let her fly off to solve her problems. Yet, all she received as a response to her prayers was a friendly, distant voice. "Calm down. We'll be done soon, I promise"

_"__Tomorrow Clara, I promise", _whispered Porridge into her ear, or well, the memory of Porridge, shushing her to sleep once more. And comforted by the idea of Porridge's pay check, Porridge's wonderful, problem solving pay check, she knew all she had to do was sleep. Sleep her way to tomorrow.

When she woke, all she knew of was light and pain. Light too strong, pain in her eyelids. Pain diffused from her eyelids to her cheekbones, and from her cheekbones to the rest of her entire skeleton, glued to muscles than soon enough absorbed the pain as well. And her left leg. Her left leg ached the worse, almost as if it were the source of everything. After a few blinks, the light ached less and helped more. Before her, all she could see was the silhouette of her father sitting on her bedside, and she even wondered if she was a grown woman. Her pain could only be explain by the process of having turned into a child again, a proper grown woman put inside such a tiny vessel.

"-Daddy?" she called for him in a surprisingly pained adult voice. She hadn't been shrunk in a vessel. Her vessel had been _broken_, and each little ache became identifiable. He turned to her immediately, with all the tenderness fathers are supposed to have. Carefully, he caressed her forehead and hair, letting her feel like a little girl despite not being one any more. She curled to his touch, not wishing to deal with anything at all. "How're you feeling, my Ozzie?" he asked, even calling her by her child alias.

But she was no child, and the slow but certain recognition of where she was made all her inner alarms beep into a passive state of emergency. "Where am I? What's happened" She asked, despite it being obvious. She needed to hear it, to know it, in order to believe it and accept it. Her dad simply curled back into her, and despite how ill she knew he was, he'd never seemed older to him than she did in that single move.

"You're at a hospital, St. John's for specifics" Danny spoke, turning her right back into a woman and making his the only voice she longed to hear. Looking for him, getting dizzy from the sudden effort, she examined the room. There was many other beds, with people in them, lights flickered, a stench seemed unbearable to her flooding the air and the overall look of the place being a disgrace. As an oasis in the middle of this hell stood Danny, comforting Danny in one of his best suits, and Jenny, brave Jenny always there for her. Still, beside them stood Satan himself in the disguise of Aunt Linda, looking around her disapprovingly and with gestures so raw, Clara made an effort to conceal her own discomfort simply so she wouldn't look a bit like her. "You had a terrible, terrible accident last night Clara" Danny completed, dropping the memory of it on her fragile mind like the coldest bucket of ice.

"Blue car" she muttered instinctively, without even commanding her brain nor her mouth to do so. Her throat ached, and the ache help her realize the medical collar trapping her neck, the burning oxygen being stuffed in her nose through tiny pipes, and the throbbing pains on her face, specifically her cheeks, result of potential wounds that surely made her look terrible (if not terrifying), broken. Her panic must've been also evident on her every feature, for his dad squeezed her hand lovingly and Danny rushed his way to hold the other, Jenny leaning in worriedly. "Yes, a blue car. Property of a madman who hit you on your way to London last night. But don't you worry, don't you dare worry about a thing. You're going to be fine real soon" Danny reassured her in a tone he'd used countless times when her control freak side got the better of her. She loathed the effect that tone had on her, immediately disarming. It shut her screaming and released every bit of tension in her muscles. It released every bit of tension she knew she should feel.

"Now you've got to rest" added her father in his own attempt at a similar tone, and she could do nothing but reply with a small smile and a nod as firm as her hurting neck allowed. She wished nothing but to have on her daddy the calming effect Danny had on her, the responsibility of his well-being entirely on her shoulders.

"When is it?" she dared ask, hoping that whatever time it was, it'd be enough. Jenny was the quicker to turn to the watch on her wrist, and Clara fixed her stare on her, as if the answer could somehow depend on Jenny and not be something entirely out of her control. "Half past two in the afternoon, Friday" announced Jenny, as if knowing the precise time Clara feared so much to hear. She swallowed dry, the thin of the hospital robe she wore feeling even thinner, no machinery or hands holding hers seeming safe enough to protect her for drowning in chaos, pulled down by fear.

Tried as she might to conceal it, she felt her own hands grow colder, her grasp of Danny and her dad's hands tighter, as if clinging to them were her only option and solution. "I've got to go" she stated weakly, too weakly in comparison to the roughness with which she dismissed both hands trapping her. "I've got to go, I've got to go" she implored them in a mumble. But the second she tried to move a bit further, she had to bite her lip to hold an agonizing screech, her every muscle seemingly crushed.

"Clara, Clara love you can't move" soothed her Danny in all military expertise, his gentle hand lightly pushing her back into the safety of her pillow, sinking her into resignation. "You've just gone through a very complicated intervention. You have to lay comfy and rest for as long as possible" he explained. And the single thought of having to lay there, uselessly, while the world crumbled outside, made her panic grow. Panic which almost overtook her when she decided to examine the rest of herself, feeling a severe ache and unwillingness to respond coming from her left leg. "What's happened to my leg?" she inquired, her hand struggling to touch it and make sure it was still in place.

Danny patted it gently, and much to her relief, Clara felt it. Jenny leaned closer, a couple jumpy steps nearer to her bed. "Nothing too bad, don't worry. You just suffered a severe fracture to your leg. You'll have a bit of difficulties walking for a while, but the Doctor said it wasn't irreparable. You'll be okay" Jenny promised in her birdy, familiar voice, and Clara wished to do nothing but believe her. She couldn't help the distressed sob that escaped her, and placing her eyes on her soothing element, her Danny, she was only reminded of the most important thing on her schedule.

"The wedding, our wedding!" she urged him, hoping that remembering meant she'd still get to have it, perfect as she'd dreamt it. Or as she'd paid it. Danny sighed and leaned into her, flooding her panic with his wooded, refreshing aroma, thing she deemed more effective than any serum. "I'm afraid we had to cancel it. - But you shan't worry about it, not for a single minute. Because I promise, I promise that as soon as you're feeling well enough, we're eloping" he comforted her with a reassuring smile and a teensy squeeze of her hand, but all she could do was pout like a child, holding her tears, that being her own way of expressing a tantrum over having her dream day ruined without being obnoxious enough to worry her dad.

"Pardon, yeah? But this is intensive care, there can't be that many people in here. You've got to move it" interrupted the tackiest woman Clara had even seen in her life, disgracefully dressed in something remotely similar to what a proper nurse should've been wearing. She was chewing a gum in the grossest of fashions, and her greasy blonde hair hadn't even been properly tied. Not to even mention the makeup, which made her look like she was wearing a nurse costume instead of a uniform. Still, Clara felt a bit glad with the announcement. The problems, the worries on her head, couldn't possibly be tended to while her dad was there to witness it. She couldn't afford to make him ill too. Reading her mind and blessed as usual, Jenny placed her hands on her dad's shoulders, softly attempting to pull him away from the bed. "I think it'd be best if you and Mrs. Linda went home and got some rest. Me and Danny, we'll take care of Clara just fine" Jenny tried to convince him, and Linda did something helpful for once and nodded, fully agreeing. "Clara obviously can't afford your nurse anymore, Dave. And you need care and rest just as much as she does, so we better get going. I'll be here to look after the pair of you for as long as needed" Linda announced, usual pride and snob attitude dripping from her every word. Clara would've immediately disputed the assertion, but she reckoned she needed Linda to look after her dad more than she needed her privacy.

"No, I want to stay" her dad implored, holding her hand once more. It broke Clara's heart, but she swallowed her childishness away and pushed all her aches and fears to a tiny corner of her chest, managing to supress them long enough to seem strong and give him an encouraging smile. "You look properly exhausted. Mum wouldn't approve. You go home, I'll be just fine. Pretty sure the worse has passed already, and I'll be there real soon" she promised him, stretching her smile. Apparently it was convincing enough, because he kissed her hand and finally let go of it. "You better be, and you better not worry about a thing, my Ozzie" he warned her, returning an equally loving smile to her. Despite all circumstances, Clara wished that very instant would last forever, because her dad was being more himself that he'd been in many months, and the tone in which he said Ozzie was almost as adoring as the tone he always chanted 'Ellie' in.

Without a word, Linda wrapped a scarf around his neck and led the way outside, her high heeled footsteps almost as obnoxious as her insensitive behaviour given the circumstance. "Goodbye Sammy, goodbye Penny" her dad whispered to Danny and Jenny, who were kind enough to ignore his mistakes and nod in empathy, displaying their most courteous and warm smiles. Clara might not count on many people, but right then she felt she needn't. She had her dad, Danny and Jenny, the best people in the whole world.

Her strength only lasted as long as Dave Oswald was in sight. The second he was no longer there, she crumbled. Not entirely sure of how it'd happened, if it'd been the child inside of her letting out her panic, feeling abandoned, or the woman knowing the muddle she'd stepped in, but her sobbing started, loud and desperate, before she could even try and fight it. Everything was blurred in tears, and not even Danny's proximity eased her frantic spirits in the slightest. "Clara, love you've got to calm down" he said softly, but her sobbing choked down any other sound. "I'm ruined Danny. Properly ruined. Finished!" she shrieked, or attempted to, huge grasps for air interrupting her mid-sentence through.

"Why? No, you'll be just fine. Your leg will be just fine" he tried once more to ease her. How foolish he was! Her leg didn't matter in the slightest. It was, if anything, the smallest and more insignificant out of her pile of problems. "No! I need to phone, now" she demanded. "Phone?" Danny asked in disbelief, clueless about the urgency of her situation. "She wants to phone!" he exclaimed to Jenny in a strange fusion of concern and indignation she was certain to have never seen in him before. But Jenny, precious Jenny, had always proven herself much more efficient and understanding than anyone else. Purse in hand, she managed to both sit by Clara's bedside and look for her cell phone.

"The apartment, Porrdige. I need to phone. Jenny!" Clara rushed her in a disorganized blabber, while Danny continued to stare in confusion. After a few seconds of search, Jenny presented the precious item, and Clara was most frustrated, against all sensible logic, to find it was Jenny's and not her own. She gave the petite biker a questioning look, but motherly as always, Jenny replied with an equally strong stare. "Your phone was destroyed in the accident. Just tell me what's the matter and I'll be quick to solve it" she stated, self-assured as always.

"Jenny, yesterday, the appointment with Porridge. We prepared the contract, but he said he couldn't sign. Gave me an appointment today at one. Jenny, I must phone him" Clara explained, her eyes widened in absolute distress. "I must phone him now. Get his number anywhere. Jenny you must!" she begged, and Jenny nodded in absolute comprehension of the emergency. Not so empathic Danny rubbed his forehead, prancing from one side to the bed to the other, making Clara even more anxious. Still, he didn't say a word. And she appreciated it, for she knew he probably hadn't a very comforting thing to say. Finally, after what'd seemed an eternity and a total of 18 footsteps from Danny, Jenny dialled and placed the beautiful technology next to Clara's ear, beeping soon audible.

"Clara, what decent a time is this to phone? Where are you?" Porridge reproached her from the other line. Despite how clearly cross he was, Clara had never found his voice to be more of a blessing.

"At the hospital. Had an accident last night, on my way home from your office. Just woke up, really. I'm sure you'll understand. You're my first call too. Just making sure our deal's still on" Clara expounded her circumstance.

"I'm afraid not anymore. I've just signed with G.I. Transports. I'm sorry Clara, but when I told you those vehicles were urgent for The Empire, I really meant it" he apologized, and although she knew he most likely meant it, she felt all her preoccupations rearrange themselves into anger, an anger that quickly installed on her face, painting it entirely red.

"What? Porridge, you're joking. You've got to be. If those cars were as bloody urgent, you would've bought them from me yesterday!" she yapped at him, strength to do so exploited from sources unknown. All heads in the room were suddenly turned to her, sleepy heads suddenly angry. "Porridge, it was a practically signed deal already. You had the contracts!" she continued, not sure if there'd even be a point but unable to stay quiet.

"I know you're upset Clara, but you must understand. I fixed what had to be fixed in the morning, and by one, when you failed to show up, I was as desperate as you are now" he argued calmly, which only ignited Clara's fury further because he seemed to shameless about it.

"I understand, but you must also understand that I wasn't having tea or off for a holiday. I was, am, in a hospital!" she screamed directly at the speaker, summoning the moans and complains from the many other patients in the room. In the other side of the line, silence. Silence from his voice, but by how well she knew him, she could almost hear the face Porridge must've been pulling at her, and her impulse to throw the phone across the room was replaced by the bigger impulse of hating on him. "Hope you end up at the hospital too, see if that makes you grow an empathic bone, you DWARF!" she finally exploded, hanging up in the act and throwing the phone to the bed, devastated. "I've lost the sale" she announced. "My commission for it was salvation. Now I'm properly broke." Clara admitted defeat, removing the tiny tubes from her nose, since the oxygen coming from them was burning her throat (which she needed to scream) and honestly, Clara hadn't the patience to wear them any longer.

Jenny hopped to rescue her device and then try to ease Clara, but it was useless to say the least. One problem unsolved, Clara reached for Jenny's hand, knowing it was only the first of the list. "Jenny I still need to phone. I need to phone for the apartment" she tugged Jenny's sleeve, capturing both her and Danny's attention. Danny stopped walking in a single, sharp move, shocked eyes reading straight through her, as she looked away in shame. "The apartment? Clara what - what apartment?" he asked, even if they both knew he already knew the answer. She took a very deep breath, unable to ignore his stare. Even if she couldn't properly tell if he was tenderly surprised by her initiative or cross for having lied to him and gone for it behind his back, she knew it didn't matter. Good intentions had turned into more red numbers on her account. "Our apartment, the one we saw. Told you we wouldn't buy it, but I just wanted to surprise you. Had to sign the deeds today morning at nine. Or they'd, they'd take the ninety five thousand pounds I'd already paid as guarantee" Clara admitted, and Jenny's eyes widened in an expression Clara didn't recall having seen ever before.

Soon enough, Danny's stared was deciphered. And, much to her own surprise, he smiled at her. He smiled at her more tenderly than she deserved, and she didn't know whether it crushed her soul or overjoyed her. "You bought us the apartment?" he asked, and she was now the properly cross one. He'd been so distracted by the sweetness of her gesture that he'd missed the point. "Ninety five thousand pounds Danny" she whimpered at him.

And finally, the penny dropped. His smile vanished, and the usual gilding of his skin became so opaque, it absorbed the light instead of reflecting it. "Clara, you didn't do the sale with Porridge. Still, all the wedding stuff was paid for and you gave ninety five thousand dollars for the apartment. - Where on Earth did you get the money for all that?" he asked her, in a tone so serious she swore she'd only heard it when he spoke to his men as a colonel, and maybe not even then.

She gulped, as if the gesture were to wash her guilt away. She took a deep breath, deep and long enough for her to close her eyes, let her exhausted brain process and accept the words in order to slide them to her mouth and let them be articulated without breaking her in pieces, ugly sobbing pieces. "I - I mortgaged my dad's house for a loan. A loan of £400000. Enough to cover up for everything" she admitted, looking down to her nails and never looking up, fingers fiddling with the disgrace of a blanket that covered her legs.

"I'll phone the Real-Estate Agency right away. I'll try and solve this Clara, promise" reassured her Danny, then focusing on his phone and leaving the room. Jenny remained silent, and Clara was more grateful for it than Jenny could imagine. Jenny knew how much that house mattered for everyone. Not only because of its incredible monetary value, but because Ellie Oswald had been the one to choose it. Ellie Oswald had been the one to decorate it and age in it. Ellie Oswald had been one to own it more than anyone, and Clara couldn't be one to lose it, because she'd lose her dad too. If not because he wouldn't wish to speak to her, because he'd die of heartbreak. Burning angry tears streamed through her cheeks, and Jenny finally made her presence known again by stroking Clara's hair, reminding her even more of Ellie Oswald.

When Clara thought she couldn't bear the situation any longer, Danny strolled back in. "That's what a guarantee payment is for, they said. Nothing can be done. And they've even sold the apartment to someone else already" he announced with a sigh, the weight and dimension of every word he said having a noticeable effect in his tone of voice. Clara breathed, sighing rearranging her fractured body into a sitting position so quietly it was almost disturbing. She breathed loudly, exhale inhale, exhale inhale in a process that, when finished, had washed the red out of her face. Other than a lick of her lips and a childish movement of her free toe, she was practically a statue. "Just one more thing, Danny love. Come here" she called for him, stretching her hand for him to hold. Confused and undeniably startled, he was quick to sway to her bedside, hold her hand and sit beside her, staring at her calm behaviour in disbelief. Once he was close enough, her hands aimed for his tie and pulled his face less than inches away from hers. "DO YOU KNOW WHO THE TWAT WHO DID THIS TO ME IS?!" she screeched, so sharply and desperately, everyone else in the room found their ears and souls torn apart by her.

"I do, yes. He's already sent his phony of a lawyer too" he whispered, trying to compensate for her loudness by being awfully quiet. She pulled him even closer, as if he were the criminal. Her eyes were now widened to the point where they'd stopped being sweet and looked nothing but menacing, the bruises of her face making her properly terrifying (against all odds), and the clenching of her teeth made her wrath look almost animal like.

"He won't need a lawyer. I want him _dead_" she hissed, and anyone who knew her at all would know she meant it. "I swear on my mum, that for everything he's caused me, he'll have hell to pay" and anyone who knew her at all would be twice as terrified now, because nothing meant more to Clara Oswald than her mum.


End file.
